The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Several of the assailants carried links, so that the room was a blaze of light. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair.
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