There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. “Ann Veronica has never looked quite so well, I think,” said Capes, clinging, because of a preconceived plan, to the suppressed topic. The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. Capes joined the students at tea, and displayed himself in an impish mood that sometimes possessed him.
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