“Marriage and mothering,” said Ann Veronica, with her mind crystallizing out again as the lark dropped to the nest in the turf. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible. He divided London into districts; appointed a gang to each district; and a leader to each gang, whom he held responsible to himself. . . ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. They went down the great staircase of the building, and, while she sought in her mind for a beginning, he broke into appreciation of her simple dress and selfcongratulations upon their engagement.
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