Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "Don't be angry with me, Thames," continued Sheppard, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation.
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