“Come, daddy,” said Ann Veronica, following her husband and Miss Stanley; and in the fulness of her heart she gave a friendly squeeze to the parental arm. “Girl friends. I don’t know. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Decidedly this was imbecile. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. “Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger.
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