6
Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage
again and accepted this offer she had at first declined.
Many little things had contributed to that decision.
The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need
of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair
of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at
the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And,
also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem
in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was —the
sensible thing to do. There it was —to be borrowed.
It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better
footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible
way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with
anything like success. If only for the sake of her
argument with her home, she wanted success. And why,
after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage?
It was so true what he said; middle-class people
were ridiculously squeamish about money.
Why should
they be?
She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If
she was in a position to help him she would help him;
only it happened to be the other way round. He was in
a position to help her. What was the objection?
She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in
the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point
almost at once.
“Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said.
Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought
very quickly.
“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook
toward him.
“It's best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum.
“I won't give you a check though — Yes, I will.
I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it
at the bank here, quite close by. . . . You'd better not
have all the money on you; you had better open a small
account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a
time. That won't involve references, as a bank account
would —and all that sort of thing. The money will last
longer, and —it won't bother you.”
He stood up rather close to her and looked into her
eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something
very perplexing and elusive. “It's jolly,” he said,
“to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee
of confidence. Last time —you made me feel snubbed.”
He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. “There's no
end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just
upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me.”
Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. “I don't want
to take up your time.”
“We won't go to any of these City places. They're
just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I
know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk.”
Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not
want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable
that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the
outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid
interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought
for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom.
Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our
story.
“Ritter's!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street.”
It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to
be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She
liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels,
the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the
teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage.
And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and
discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small
tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was
an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light
shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with
insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited
with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought
the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food
than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and
Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate,
ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip
or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just
the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be
lunching thus, tête-à-tête with a man; and yet
at the same
time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable
proceeding.
They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly
manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really
very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational
boldness that was just within the limits of permissible
daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to
him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he
talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a
modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know
a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities.
He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with
the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed
a thing worth having. . . .
But when she was thinking it over in her room that
evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across
this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him
and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.
She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate
part in the conversation, she had talked rather more
freely than she ought to have done, and given him a
wrong impression of herself.
