Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. It was a simple wish. There stepped forth a tall brown man. I don’t want you to talk to me now. I am altogether a person of a disposition extremely interfering, as you have so often told me.
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