They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. A door slammed. But days had now passed. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. 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. You shall have room to develop, you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares.
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