I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. I want you to understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. It happened that at the extremest point of Ann Veronica’s social circle from the Widgetts was the family of the Morningside Park horsedealer, a company of extremely dressy and hilarious young women, with one equestrian brother addicted to fancy waistcoats, cigars, and facial spots. That is my way, my dear.
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