It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. Profoundly. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. You can’t go. Ann Veronica listened thoughtfully, with her eyes on the turf, and now and then she asked a question or looked up to discuss a point. He nodded silently, too full for words.
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