In addition to the various business men, solicitors, civil servants, and widow ladies who lived in the Morningside Park Avenue, there was a certain family of alien sympathies and artistic quality, the Widgetts, with which Ann Veronica had become very friendly. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. “Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes.
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