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He walked with bent head. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. As a rule, Courtlaw told her softly, he talked right and left, and to everybody throughout the whole of the meal—tonight he was almost silent, and seemed to devote his whole attention to staring at Anna. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. ‘Imbecile.

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