And as she was yet waiting for her tea to come she saw this man again. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. But she was not to be tempted. His grip twisted her wrist.
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