But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. The phone did not ring. “I rue the day I ever met you, Sebastianus. One learns to sit up. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet.
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