‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. 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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