He would be so disappointed. Which, if we are not all of us very careful indeed, will be stolen from Miss Charvill. He turned, expecting to see his wife. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. “Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. ’ Her face fell. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. She rode him gently.
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