“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. “Promise. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. “I must explain to her. But you must see her alone; and that'll be no easy matter to manage, for she's a great invalid, and has generally somebody with her. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton.
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