The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me.
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