” Annabel, who was looking very well, and who was most becomingly dressed, moved to a seat from which she could command a view of the road outside. ” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. They had as many designations as grades. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. She obeyed, extending her arm. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. Ann Veronica liked their relationship all the more because it was an unusual one. Only she is not Madame Valade at all.
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