He fell into a brown study.  It was so difficult to put precisely.

“—­and your aunt—­”

For a time he searched for the mot juste.  Then he went on: 

“—­and, indeed, to most of the established things in life is, frankly, unsatisfactory.  You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth.  You have no grasp upon the essential facts of life (I pray God you never may), and in your rash ignorance you are prepared to dash into positions that may end in lifelong regret.  The life of a young girl is set about with prowling pitfalls.”

He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence.  But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.  “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it is.  That’s all about it.  It’s time she knew.”

“The life of a young girl is set about with prowling pitfalls, from which she must be shielded at all costs.”

His lips tightened, and he frowned with solemn resolution.

“So long as I am your father, so long as your life is entrusted to my care, I feel bound by every obligation to use my authority to check this odd disposition of yours toward extravagant enterprises.  A day will come when you will thank me.  It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.  But a girl is soiled not only by evil but by the proximity of evil, and a reputation for rashness may do her as serious an injury as really reprehensible conduct.  So do please believe that in this matter I am acting for the best.”

He signed his name and reflected.  Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire.

His sister appeared.

She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself.  She had the same sharp nose—­which, indeed, only Ann Veronica, of all the family, had escaped.  She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws.  He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter.  But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—­to use the kindliest term.  Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—­a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand.  She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude.