Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She stared at his pleading face. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. But she was relentless. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance.
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