Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse.
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