Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. I felt suddenly I understood you—as an intelligent person. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. “Wow.
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