So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom—Miss Klegg—might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly— she moved so beautifully—and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. But I'll never part with your irons. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. Lost ground must be regained.
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