Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. “I can talk to you and you to me without a scrap of effort,” said Capes; “that’s the essence of it. So presently they got into a hansom together, and Ann Veronica sat back feeling very luxurious and pleasant, and looked at the light and stir and misty glitter of the street traffic from under slightly drooping eyelids, while Ramage sat closer to her than he need have done, and glanced ever and again at her face, and made to speak and said nothing. She had begun alone. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. You won't often see white folks. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform.
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