“To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. ” When the next holidays came Ann Veronica’s mother was ill, and Gwen was in the sick-room when Ann Veronica returned home. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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