"Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. 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. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder.
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