He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. She was nude and horribly maimed. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things.
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