Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so. “Ann Veronica,” he said. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked.
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