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. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “John, don’t!” she cried. “If you say so, Lucy. Here's the——" "Let me have one," cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door,—"here's the money. "You forgot your lunch," she said. ‘Me also I do not recall them. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. You do not believe me. There was one letter.
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