” “H’m!” said Ann Veronica, and shook her head. When Ann Veronica came into the study she found every evidence of a carefully foreseen grouping about the gas fire. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. She felt very cool as he opened the door for her, as if she should have chic sunglasses and stiletto heels on, dark red lipstick. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment.
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