He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. "Evidently he could not destroy these children of his. And I’ll have that story off you as we journey back to town. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them.
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