The conversation hung. Ann Veronica wondered what her father would do if she were to tell him the full story of her relations with Ramage.
"A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation." He adjusted his glasses on his nose. There was another little thing he had to say. "One has to be so careful of one's friends and acquaintances," he remarked, by way of transition. "They mould one insensibly." His voice assumed an easy detached tone. "I suppose, Vee, you don't see much of those Widgetts now?"
"I go in and talk to Constance sometimes."
"Do you?"
"We were great friends at school."
"No doubt.... Still—I don't know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it." His voice conveyed studied moderation. "I don't mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences—differences in social atmospheres. One gets drawn into things. Before you know where you are you find yourself in a complication. I don't want to influence you unduly—But—They're artistic people, Vee. That's the fact about them. We're different."
"I suppose we are," said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand.
"Friendships that are all very well between school-girls don't always go on into later life. It's—it's a social difference."
"I like Constance very much."
