Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years. ” “I thought it was earlier,” said Ann Veronica. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself.
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