“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Wood,—"he'll never mend. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. She took it for granted Ann Veronica wore stays—mild stays, perhaps, but stays, and thought no more of the matter. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest.
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