She looked at her flattened belly. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. I don’t want to stop your singing. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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