A maidservant held the front door open. He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. The movement was then in its earlier militant phases, and one of the women only, Miss Garvice, opposed it, though Ann Veronica was disposed to be lukewarm. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. It amounted to two-and-twenty pounds. I want to know who sent you those. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated.
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