Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. We hide it bravely, but so it is. "It is easy to make an assertion like this," said Thames, contemptuously. It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. If some of them are bad in the sense you mean, it is because there are bad folks in all walks of life. " "What has he done?" "What did he have to drink over here last night?" "Not even water. Men do not understand constancy as women do.
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