And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers.  It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection.  Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly.  Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri.  It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding.

They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs.  He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring.  She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman’s outlook.  He seemed to know a great deal about life.  He gave glimpses of possibilities.  He roused curiosities.  He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy.  His friendship seemed a thing worth having....

But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction.  She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.  She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself.

Part 7

That was two days before Christmas Eve.  The next morning came a compact letter from her father.

“My dear daughter,” it ran,—­“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation.  I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home.  This roof is still open to you.  You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy.

“Indeed, I must implore you to return.  This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself.  We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on.  If you will think only of one trifling aspect—­the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence—­I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us.  I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request.