“Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. The knight stood upon his defence; but he would unquestionably have been torn in pieces by the savage hounds, if a shower of oaths, seconded by a vigorous application of kicks and blows from their master, had not driven them growling off. There is no Heaven for your mother. ’” “What did he say?” “What does any one say to an invitation to dinner point-blank? One tries to collect one’s wits. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor.
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