It’s the public entrance. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. And, if I'd my own way with the Secretary of State, he never should. It’s too valiant, Miss Stanley, too valiant altogether!” Ann Veronica meditated. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in.
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