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Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. Well, this is OUR thing. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t understand why I wanted you to come here?” “Not a bit of it,” said Ann Veronica stoutly.
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