For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm.
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