So presently they got into a hansom together, and Ann Veronica sat back feeling very luxurious and pleasant, and looked at the light and stir and misty glitter of the street traffic from under slightly drooping eyelids, while Ramage sat closer to her than he need have done, and glanced ever and again at her face, and made to speak and said nothing. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. . But we can’t help noticing. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead.
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