Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never.
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