There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building. She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. But this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and, nerved by despair, the carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the execution, almost from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto shrunk. “It is very doubtful,” he said. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw.
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