She had never heard anything so unholy. The man was my husband. Something in her tone made him look up. It was one of the most educational disillusionments in Ann Veronica’s career. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested.
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