She packed her things, then ran a mile to Julian’s apartment. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. He thought it best to let the matter drop. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified.
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