“I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. And so Winifred understood him. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. It will hold aloof, a little undecided whether to pelt or not—” “That depends whether we carry ourselves as though we expected pelting,” said Ann Veronica. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious.
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