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But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!” Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. He has no imagination, no real generosity. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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