“I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced. She had been so young then. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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