In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters.
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