Mrs. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. “Think of what Lady Palsworthy will say! Think of what”—So-and-so —“will say! What are we to tell people? “Besides, what am I to tell your father?” At first it had not been at all clear to Ann Veronica that she would refuse to return home; she had had some dream of a capitulation that should leave her an enlarged and defined freedom, but as her aunt put this aspect and that of her flight to her, as she wandered illogically and inconsistently from one urgent consideration to another, as she mingled assurances and aspects and emotions, it became clearer and clearer to the girl that there could be little or no change in the position of things if she returned. In a moment they were in the street outside. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. Then for a time she sat very still. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie.
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