She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. “Come sit with me, beautiful. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory.
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