“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age. Mr. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind.
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