He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. I do not love you.
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