“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. ’ ‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. I guess they were bad all the time. Wood. Imperceptibly almost Ann Veronica began to acquire the new attitude, even while her mind still resisted the felted ideas that went with it. ‘Why did you bring him? I hate him. But her request was unheeded.
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