“Uh, I think I might, Shari. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. “It’s—private. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical.
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