“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. Ann Veronica was much impressed by a mighty trying on and altering and fussing about Alice’s “things”—Alice was being re-costumed from garret to cellar, with a walking-dress and walking-boots to measure, and a bride’s costume of the most ravishing description, and stockings and such like beyond the dreams of avarice—and a constant and increasing dripping into the house of irrelevant remarkable objects, such as— Real lace bedspread; Gilt travelling clock; Ornamental pewter plaque; Salad bowl (silver mounted) and servers; Madgett’s “English Poets” (twelve volumes), bound purple morocco; Etc. CHAPTER I. She confided in me yesterday. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. Perhaps in the beginning the women made fools of themselves over him. . ” Ennison turned round sharply. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night.
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