She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. Come. "Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. 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. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat.
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