“That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. She snatched about in her mind. “Isn’t the question more complicated than that?” said Ann Veronica. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it.
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