And, in addition, she was now seeing and talking to Ramage almost weekly, on a theory which she took very gravely, that they were exceptionally friends.  He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semi-Bohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.  Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse.  These dinners, from their lavish display of ambiguous hors d’oeuvre to their skimpy ices in dishes of frilled paper, with their Chianti flasks and Parmesan dishes and their polyglot waiters and polyglot clientele, were very funny and bright; and she really liked Ramage, and valued his help and advice.  It was interesting to see how different and characteristic his mode of approach was to all sorts of questions that interested her, and it was amusing to discover this other side to the life of a Morningside Park inhabitant.  She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did.  Ramage talked always about women or some woman’s concern, and very much about Ann Veronica’s own outlook upon life.  He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison.  Ann Veronica liked their relationship all the more because it was an unusual one.

After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo.  Once he suggested they should go to a music-hall and see a wonderful new dancer, but Ann Veronica did not feel she cared to see a new dancer.  So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life.  Ann Veronica thought it was a spontaneous release of energy expressive of well-being, but Ramage thought that by dancing, men, and such birds and animals as dance, come to feel and think of their bodies.

This intercourse, which had been planned to warm Ann Veronica to a familiar affection with Ramage, was certainly warming Ramage to a constantly deepening interest in Ann Veronica.  He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster.  He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her.  Until that was done a certain experience of life assured him that a girl is a locked coldness against a man’s approach.  She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect.  On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—­that was the riddle—­to all sorts of personal applications that almost any