“Father would, of course, which puts it out of the question.”
“You being financially dependent on him?”
“Not only that. I happen to be fond of him.”
Antonia smiled, a sweet slow warmth and kindling of her wonted frostiness. “Is there that much grace in you, woman?”
“Though you didn’t allow for it in the sketch—yes, there is.”
“I won’t exhibit the sketch, I promise you.”
“Antonia, dear——” Mrs Verity stood, with one hand pushing aside the dark blue and green portière of the studio. A neat little figure in a black dress with white collar and cuffs; a precise little spinster, one would say, from a novel of Jane Austen or Mrs Gaskell. Manners of superlative delicacy; speech in which each separate syllable was clearly articulated; a habit of mind which seized on the most trivial utterance of others, and smoothed it out flat for earnest consideration. Mrs Verity’s personality was such as to make it quite credible that Antonia was found in a gooseberry bush.
“Good afternoon, Miss Marcus. Are you quite well? Yes? Really? I am so pleased. It is delightful to find you here with Antonia. I wonder if I might ask for a cup of tea? Not if it is at all inconvenient, Antonia. I can order it in the dining-room, indeed I can. Do you not think the parks are looking lovely? I wonder if—— But I interrupted you, Miss Marcus.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Deb, who had only begun an affirmative: “Yes, aren’t they?” in reference to the parks.
“Oh, but please, please say what you were going to say. It was unpardonably rude of me to cut you so short.”