She took up a book and threw it down again. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. The major hailed him with a show of relief. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. She resolved to walk across the Park to the Zoological gardens, and so on by way of Primrose Hill to Hampstead Heath. .
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