He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. In the corner of the room were two hockey-sticks and a tennis-racket, and upon the walls Ann Veronica, by means of autotypes, had indicated her proclivities in art. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. No pistols, no daggers today?’ ‘Would you have me show a pistol with so many soldiers? I am not a fool. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. It was. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. And so, here we are, right back from where we started. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it.
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