" "Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. “Well?” “I don’t care a rap for all these things. “And then?” said Ann Veronica. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. . The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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