" "We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. . I know nothing of that young lady. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. She said as much to him. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. No more. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. I must have been very wound up.
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