Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Look at me. Jackson’s. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Diane replied, “Is there something wrong with that, Michelle? This is my house too, you know. I don’t think I shall ever care for this bonnet again. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said.
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