“I may have to run,” said her father, with an appeal to his watch.

“I’ll run, too,” she volunteered.

Instead of which they walked sharply....

“I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath.

“If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica.  I’ve made up my mind.”

“You’ll make me look a fool before all my friends.”

“You shouldn’t have made an engagement until you’d consulted your aunt.”

“I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying.

Her father’s step quickened to a trot.  “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said.  “Stop it!...  If you’ve got anything to say, you must say it to your aunt—­”

“But look here, daddy!”

He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture.

“It’s settled.  You’re not to go.  You’re not to go.”

“But it’s about other things.”

“I don’t care.  This isn’t the place.”

“Then may I come to the study to-night—­after dinner?”

“I’m—­busy!”

“It’s important.  If I can’t talk anywhere else—­I do want an understanding.”

Ahead of them walked a gentleman whom it was evident they must at their present pace very speedily overtake.  It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue.  He had recently made Mr. Stanley’s acquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities.  He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. Stanley admired and detested him in almost equal measure.  It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases.  Mr. Stanley’s pace slackened.

“You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said.  “I can’t see what possible benefit can come of discussing things that are settled.  If you want advice, your aunt is the person.  However, if you must air your opinions—­”

“To-night, then, daddy!”

He made an angry but conceivably an assenting noise, and then Ramage glanced back and stopped, saluted elaborately, and waited for them to come up.  He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, clean-shaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.  He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely.  He did not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was also unsympathetic.

“Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression.  “They ought to have been lopped in the spring.”

“There’s plenty of time,” said Ramage.  “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?”

“I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon.”