The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts.
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