It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by the entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought to attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her, as he did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. It was one of the most educational disillusionments in Ann Veronica’s career. A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. .
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