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His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. There were no mourners. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, “that’s the form my question takes at the present time. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you.
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