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" "Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. He knew she had been weeping. ’ ‘Also madame his wife—’ Charvill’s gorge rose. ‘This is not love, Marthe. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. "Precisely. 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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