But if we had gone under—!” They regarded one another silently, and Ann Veronica had one of her penetrating flashes. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. ” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here.
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