“I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He slapped his knee. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. He kissed her again. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. “I do not know you,” she said coldly.
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