They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely.
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