Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. They took their places at a distant table. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good.
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