“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. She addressed Capes as though she spoke to him alone. He pushed her back forcefully into her seat with his lips, his body automatically responding to her kiss.
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