Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. “Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. Then he put the paper by. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. 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.
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