He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company.
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