Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. . And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “That is very nice of you,” she said. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. ’ ‘What name would you like, then?’ Her shadowed features turned in his direction. . . “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. . No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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