After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil.
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