Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. He fancied, indeed, that he beheld a figure spring upon the starling at the moment when the boats came in contact; but, as he could perceive no one near him, he concluded he must have been mistaken. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter.
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