Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. He moaned. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly.
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