“I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. But it was under false names, so I dare say it ain’t valid.
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