” He was bereft of words for a moment, and in that moment she escaped, having passed him on deftly to one of the later arrivals. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. ” “Hampstead didn’t suit Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison remarked.
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