Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She smiled. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then. She could feel her face turning beet red. All the world over a wedding procession arouses laughter and derision in the bystanders.
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