At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Irreton. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. The Wastrel did not relish this. There was a black fear in his heart. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. Conquer the difficult situation in which she found herself. She was not obliged to go to the Tredgold College, because as yet the College had not settled down for the session.
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