Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. Mrs. . For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. The soldiers! They must not find her here.
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