“Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much.
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