“I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. And you’re as clean as fire. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends. Do so; and I am yours as heretofore.
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