She never knew what became of her farmer after that. “She is marvellously clever,” he said. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. Not a moment is to be lost. When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. He knew she had been weeping. Had he found the secret door? Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from. Nevertheless, Ann Veronica found it a difficult matter not to think of these things. The world, perhaps, will be educated out of its idea of fixed standards.
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