Primarily it was her own problem, and in particular the answer she had to give to Mr. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours. 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. “Soon she will return. "I'll be their substitute. "I knew him at once. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls.
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