Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. “Look here,” he cried out of a silence, with a sudden flash of understanding, “did you mean to throw me over when you came out with me this afternoon?” Ann Veronica hesitated, and with a startled mind realized the truth. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. “So am I. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. . .
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