He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. 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. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. I can be that man, the one I know you want. “What a little brick!” he murmured. Mrs. This way, Sir Rowland.
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