"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. 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.
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