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This is my friend, Mr. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. 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. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. ’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure.
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