"— Well," she said, plaintively, after a pause, "I only asked… Oh, damn it, when I think of myself reading books a month ago, and wondering whether I might be in love with Wilfrid Denim and not know it, and wondering how they could make such a fuss about it; and then I think of myself now — I've played the silly fool, I'd have done anything-!" She shook her head fiercely and then smiled. The impish look came back; she spoke banteringly, yet it was as though she were pricking a knife-point against her flesh, half fearful that she might draw blood. "I hope you mean it, old boy. I rather think I should die if you didn't."
Rampole started in, oratorically, to tell how worthless he was; young men always feel impelled to do this, and Rampole even went so far as to mean it. The effect was somewhat marred by his putting his hand into the butter-dish at the height of the peroration, but she said she didn't, care if he rolled in the butter, and laughed at his humiliation. So they decided they ought to eat something. She kept saying everything was, "ridiculous," and Rampole seized recklessly on the idea.
"Have some of this damn silly tea," he suggested. "Take a little of this maundering, bughouse lemon and a soupcon of senile sugar. Go on, take it. It's a curious thing, but I feel like throwing the loony toast at you precisely because I love you so much. Marmalade? It has a very low I.Q. I recommend it. Besides―"
"Please! Dr. Fell will be in any moment. Do stop dancing about! — And would you mind opening a window? You beastly Americans like everything so stuffy. Please!"
He strode across to a window beside the fireplace and threw back the curtains, giving a very fair imitation of her accent as he continued his monologue. The rain had slackened. Throwing open the leaves of the window, he poked his head out, and instinctively looked towards Chatterham prison. What he saw caused him not a shock of surprise or fear, but a calm, cold jubilation. He spoke with pleasure and deliberateness.
"This time," he said, "I'm going to get the son — I'm going to get him."
He nodded as he spoke, and turned a queer face to the girl as he pointed out into the rain. Again there was a light in the Governor's Room of Chatterham prison.
It looked like a candle, small and flickering through the dusk. She took only one glance at it before she seized his shoulder.
"What are you going to do?"
"I've told you. Heaven willing," said Rampole, briskly,