H. Wells: Ann Veronica

London--the idea is preposterous. I can't imagine what possessed

you, Veronica."

He put his head on one side, pulled down the corners of his

mouth, and looked at her over his glasses.

"But why is it preposterous?" asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled

with a pipe on the mantel.

"Surely!" he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal.

"You see, daddy, I don't think it IS preposterous. That's really

what I want to discuss. It comes to this--am I to be trusted to

take care of myself, or am I not?"

"To judge from this proposal of yours, I should say not."

"I think I am."

"As long as you remain under my roof--" he began, and paused.

"You are going to treat me as though I wasn't. Well, I don't

think that's fair."

"Your ideas of fairness--" he remarked, and discontinued that

sentence. "My dear girl," he said, in a tone of patient

reasonableness, "you are a mere child. You know nothing of life,

nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. You think

everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. It isn't. It

isn't. That's where you go wrong. In some things, in many

things, you must trust to your elders, to those who know more of

life than you do. Your aunt and I have discussed all this

matter. There it is. You can't go."

The conversation hung for a moment. Ann Veronica tried to keep

hold of a complicated situation and not lose her head. She had

turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire.

"You see, father," she said, "it isn't only this affair of the

dance. I want to go to that because it's a new experience,

because I think it will be interesting and give me a view of

things. You say I know nothing. That's probably true. But how

am I to know of things?"

"Some things I hope you may never know," he said.

"I'm not so sure. I want to know--just as much as I can."

"Tut!" he said, fuming, and put out his hand to the papers in the

pink tape.

"Well, I do. It's just that I want to say. I want to be a human

being; I want to learn about things and know about things, and

not to be protected as something too precious for life, cooped up

in one narrow little corner."

"Cooped up!" he cried. "Did I stand in the way of your going to

college? Have I ever prevented you going about at any reasonable

hour? You've got a bicycle!"

"H'm!" said Ann Veronica, and then went on "I want to be taken

seriously. A girl--at my age--is grown-up. I want to go on with

my University work under proper conditions, now that I've done

the Intermediate. It isn't as though I haven't done well. I've

never muffed an exam. yet. Roddy muffed two. . . ."

Her father interrupted. "Now look here, Veronica, let us be

plain with each other. You are not going to that infidel

Russell's classes. You are not going anywhere but to the

Tredgold College. I've thought that out, and you must make up

your mind to it. All sorts of considerations come in. While you

live in my house you must follow my ideas. You are wrong even

about that man's scientific position and his standard of work.

There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him--simply laugh at

him. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as

being--well, next door to shameful. There's stories, too, about

his demonstrator, Capes Something or other. The kind of man

who isn't content with his science, and writes articles in the

monthly reviews. Anyhow, there it is: YOU ARE NOT GOING THERE."

The girl received this intimation in silence. but the face that

looked down upon the gas fire took an expression of obstinacy

that brought out a hitherto latent resemblance between parent and

child. When she spoke, her lips twitched.

"Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?"

"It seems the natural course "

"And do nothing?"

"There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home."

"Until some one takes pity on me and marries me?"

He raised his eyebrows in mild appeal. His foot tapped

impatiently, and he took up the papers.

"Look here, father," she said, with a change in her voice,

"suppose I won't stand it?"

He regarded her as though this was a new idea.

"Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?"

"You won't."

"Well"--her breath failed her for a moment. "How would you

prevent it?" she asked.

"But I have forbidden it!" he said, raising his voice.

"Yes, I know. But suppose I go?"

"Now, Veronica! No, no. This won't do. Understand me! I

forbid it. I do not want to hear from you even the threat of

disobedience." He spoke loudly. "The thing is forbidden!"

"I am ready to give up anything that you show to be wrong."

"You will give up anything I wish you to give up."

They stared at each other through a pause, and both faces were

flushed and obstinate.

She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless

gymnastics to restrain her tears. But when she spoke her lips

quivered, and they came. "I mean to go to that dance!" she

blubbered. "I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with

you, but you won't reason. You're dogmatic."

At the sight of her tears his expression changed to a mingling of

triumph and concern. He stood up, apparently intending to put an

arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. She

produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a

simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. His voice

now had lost its ironies.

"Now, Veronica," he pleaded, "Veronica, this is most

unreasonable. All we do is for your good. Neither your aunt nor

I have any other thought but what is best for you."

"Only you won't let me live. Only you won't let me exist!"

Mr. Stanley lost patience. He bullied frankly.

"What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO

live, you DO exist! You have this home. You have friends,

acquaintances, social standing, brothers and sisters, every

advantage! Instead of which, you want to go to some mixed

classes or other and cut up rabbits and dance about at nights in

wild costumes with casual art student friends and God knows who.

That--that isn't living! You are beside yourself. You don't

know what you ask nor what you say. You have neither reason nor

logic. I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your

good. You MUST not, you SHALL not go. On this I am resolved. I

put my foot down like--like adamant. And a time will come,

Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me

for my firmness to-night. It goes to my heart to disappoint you,

but this thing must not be."

He sidled toward her, but she recoiled from him, leaving him in

possession of the hearth-rug.

"Well," she said, "good-night, father."

"What!" he asked; "not a kiss?"

She affected not to hear.

The door closed softly upon her. For a long time he remained

standing before the fire, staring at the situation. Then he sat

down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. . . .

"I don't see what else I could have said," he remarked.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

ANN VERONICA GATHERS POINTS OF VIEW

Part 1

"Are you coming to the Fadden Dance, Ann Veronica?" asked

Constance Widgett.

Ann Veronica considered her answer. "I mean to," she replied.

"You are making your dress?"

"Such as it is."

They were in the elder Widgett girl's bedroom; Hetty was laid up,

she said, with a sprained ankle, and a miscellaneous party was