She was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. 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. "I'm quite at your disposal. The Ragged Edge. Ramage!” she began, and his mouth sealed hers and his breath was mixed with her breath. “I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. Somehow. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. Suffer me to precede you.
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