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In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again.
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