"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. She gloried in it: he needed her. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him.
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