Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The major will not call. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. You see—I didn’t understand. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened.
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