Part 3
When Ann Veronica found herself in her father's study that
evening it seemed to her for a moment as though all the events of
the past six months had been a dream. The big gray spaces of
London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very
remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the
meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were
like things in a book read and closed. The study seemed
absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little
chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same
bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink
tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same
father. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as
she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden
Dance. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the
dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have
discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a
certain hardness--sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded
in the daughter --but hardness nevertheless, that made every
compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
"And so you have been thinking?" her father began, quoting her
letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. "Well, my
girl, I wish you had thought about all these things before these
bothers began."
Ann Veronica perceived that she must not forget to remain
eminently reasonable.
"One has to live and learn," she remarked, with a passable
imitation of her father's manner.
"So long as you learn," said Mr. Stanley.
Their conversation hung.
"I suppose, daddy, you've no objection to my going on with my
work at the Imperial College?" she asked.
"If it will keep you busy," he said, with a faintly ironical
smile.
"The fees are paid to the end of the session."
He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a
formal statement.
"You may go on with that work," he said, "so long as you keep in
harmony with things at home. I'm convinced that much of
Russell's investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines.
Still--you must learn for yourself. You're of age--you're of
age."
"The work's almost essential for the B.Sc. exam."
"It's scandalous, but I suppose it is."
Their agreement so far seemed remarkable, and yet as a
home-coming the thing was a little lacking in warmth. But Ann
Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. They were silent
for a time. "It's a period of crude views and crude work," said
Mr. Stanley. "Still, these Mendelian fellows seem likely to give
Mr. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. Some of their
specimens--wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up."
"Daddy," said Ann Veronica, "these affairs--being away from home
has--cost money."
"I thought you would find that out."
"As a matter of fact, I happen to have got a little into debt."
"NEVER!"
Her heart sank at the change in his expression.
"Well, lodgings and things! And I paid my fees at the College."
"Yes. But how could you get--Who gave you credit?
"You see," said Ann Veronica, "my landlady kept on my room while
I was in Holloway, and the fees for the College mounted up pretty
considerably." She spoke rather quickly, because she found her
father's question the most awkward she had ever had to answer in
her life.
"Molly and you settled about the rooms. She said you HAD some
money."
"I borrowed it," said Ann Veronica in a casual tone, with white
despair in her heart.
"But who could have lent you money?"
"I pawned my pearl necklace. I got three pounds, and there's
three on my watch."
"Six pounds. H'm. Got the tickets? Yes, but then--you said you
borrowed?"
"I did, too," said Ann Veronica.
"Who from?"
She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. The truth
was impossible, indecent. If she mentioned Ramage he might have
a fit--anything might happen. She lied. "The Widgetts," she
said.
"Tut, tut!" he said. "Really, Vee, you seem to have advertised
our relations pretty generally!"
"They--they knew, of course. Because of the Dance."
"How much do you owe them?"
She knew forty pounds was a quite impossible sum for their
neighbors. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. "Eight
pounds," she plunged, and added foolishly, "fifteen pounds will
see me clear of everything." She muttered some unlady-like
comment upon herself under her breath and engaged in secret
additions.
Mr. Stanley determined to improve the occasion. He seemed to
deliberate. "Well," he said at last slowly, "I'll pay it. I'll
pay it. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope --this is the end of these
adventures. I hope you have learned your lesson now and come to
see--come to realize --how things are. People, nobody, can do as
they like in this world. Everywhere there are limitations."
"I know," said Ann Veronica (fifteen pounds!). "I have learned
that. I mean--I mean to do what I can." (Fifteen pounds.
Fifteen from forty is twenty-five.)
He hesitated. She could think of nothing more to say.
"Well," she achieved at last. "Here goes for the new life!"
"Here goes for the new life," he echoed and stood up. Father and
daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little
insecure with the other. He made a movement toward her, and then
recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that
study. She saw his purpose and his doubt hesitated also, and
then went to him, took his coat lapels, and kissed him on the
cheek.
"Ah, Vee," he said, "that's better! and kissed her back rather
clumsily. "We're going to be sensible."
She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a
grave, preoccupied expression. (Fifteen pounds! And she wanted
forty!)
