There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. “I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday.
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