Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites.
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