“Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset.
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