“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “Well, my girl, I wish you had thought about all these things before these bothers began.” Ann Veronica perceived that she must not forget to remain eminently reasonable. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner. “So long as you learn,” said Mr. Stanley. Their conversation hung. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. “The fees are paid to the end of the session.” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. “You may go on with that work,” he said, “so long as you keep in harmony with things at home. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. Still--you must learn for yourself. You’re of age--you’re of age.” “The work’s almost essential for the B.Sc. exam.” “It’s scandalous, but I suppose it is.” Their agreement so far seemed remarkable, and yet as a home-coming the thing was a little lacking in warmth. But Ann Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. They were silent for a time. “It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr. Stanley. “Still, these Mendelian fellows seem likely to give Mr. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. Some of their specimens--wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up.” “Daddy,” said Ann Veronica, “these affairs--being away from home has--cost money.” “I thought you would find that out.” “As a matter of fact, I happen to have got a little into debt.” “NEVER!” Her heart sank at the change in his expression. “Well, lodgings and things! And I paid my fees at the College.” “Yes. But how could you get--Who gave you credit? “You see,” said Ann Veronica, “my landlady kept on my room while I was in Holloway, and the fees for the College mounted up pretty considerably.” She spoke rather quickly, because she found her father’s question the most awkward she had ever had to answer in her life. “Molly and you settled about the rooms. She said you HAD some money.” “I borrowed it,” said Ann Veronica in a casual tone, with white despair in her heart. “But who could have lent you money?” “I pawned my pearl necklace. I got three pounds, and there’s three on my watch.” “Six pounds. H’m. Got the tickets? Yes, but then--you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. The truth was impossible, indecent. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit--anything might happen. She lied. “The Widgetts,” she said. “Tut, tut!” he said. “Really, Vee, you seem to have advertised our relations pretty generally!” “They--they knew, of course. Because of the Dance.” “How much do you owe them?”