It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. His figure was slight, but well-built; and, in stature he did not exceed five feet four. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. “NOW!” said Ann Veronica. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. We men are like children. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Then for a time she sat very still.
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