" "Waste not another word with him, Thames," cried Jack. They exchanged greetings with the clarinetist. 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. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. There was no rush. "You mistake,—you are mine.
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