So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. The theme was a masquerade. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre.
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