“Ann Veronica,” he said. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Diane spoke first. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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