"Then Ronny'll fall in love with him, and get her little heart broken."
"She won't, Mummy, she won't. They only talk like that because they think Ferdie's Ronny's father."
"Dorothy!"
Frances, in horror, released herself from that protecting arm. The horror came, not from the fact, but from her daughter's knowledge of it.
"Poor Mummy, didn't you know? That's why Bartie hates her."
"It isn't true."
"What's the good of that as long as Bartie thinks it is?" said Dorothy.
"London Bridge is broken down
(Ride over my Lady Leigh!)"
Veronica was in the drawing-room, singing "London Bridge."
Michael, in all the beauty of his adolescence, lay stretched out on the sofa, watching her. Her small, exquisite, childish face between the plaits of honey-coloured hair, her small, childish face thrilled him with a singular delight and sadness. She was so young and so small, and at the same time so perfect that Michael could think of her as looking like that for ever, not growing up into a tiresome, bouncing, fluffy flapper like Rosalind Jervis.