“I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat.
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