You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. Then we can loiter and gossip to our heart’s content. .
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