He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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