In fact, Mr. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. “I missed the hour of your release,” he said, “but I was at the Vindicator Restaurant. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. He looked at her in some embarrassment. Vee’s all right. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. But this was long ago.
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