CHAPTER XXVII. Jests are not for seasons like this. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. She was quite assured that she would never see him again. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. What I do know I shall have no hesitation in telling anyone who has the right to ask. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. Her mind went on generalizing. The infusion Martin’s and her talents had inspired many students to work much harder than they ever had previously as the season came to a head. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing.
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