Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. I am dreadfully sad. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. Lucy knocked again. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. “There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica.
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