girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made.  He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible.  She responded with an unfaltering appearance of insensibility, and never as a young and beautiful woman conscious of sex; always in the character of an intelligent girl student.

His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter.  Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation.  Or he would find something—­a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.

He was beginning to think about her inordinately.  He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—­conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.  And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her.

He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun.  He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world.

“I’ve had most of the things I wanted,” said Ramage, in the stillness of the night.

Part 3

For a time Ann Veronica’s family had desisted from direct offers of a free pardon; they were evidently waiting for her resources to come to an end.  Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare.  “I had a dream in the night,” she said.  “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping.  You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white.  It was really most vivid, most vivid!  You seemed to be slipping and just going to tumble and holding on.  It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you.  I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you.  I said to myself at once, ’Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce.’  But I made sure it was you.  I felt I must do something anyhow, and up I came just as soon as I could to see you.”

She had spoken rather rapidly.  “I can’t help saying it,” she said, with the quality of her voice altering, “but I do not think it is right for an unprotected girl to be in London alone as you are.”