This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. The theme was a masquerade. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.
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