“Well, we'll say rampageing; going as you please.”
“Yes.” She owned to it without hesitation. “I can't be happy, I think, unless I can do just what I like everywhere. It was one of the first things Jack Senhouse ever taught me. He was an anarchist, you know—and I suppose I'm one, too.”
“Your gypsy friend?” He jerked his head backwards to the photograph. “By Jove, my dear,” he added, “you must have knocked him sideways—even him—when you carried out his little ideas—as you did.”
She opened her eyes to a stare. She stared, rather ruefully. “Yes,” she said, “I believe I did. I know I did. He was dreadfully unhappy. He and I were never quite the same after that. But I couldn't help myself. It was before me—it had to be done.”
“No, no, no!” cried he vehemently, but checked himself. “Pardon, Sancie. We won't go over all that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do. Now that escapade in the pond, you know. That was all right—with only old Senhouse in the way. You must admit that you were rather decolletee, to say the least of it. Now, would you say that you can do those sort of things—go as you please, you know, anywhere?”
“Why not?” Her eyes were straightly at him.
“What! Whether you're seen or not?”
She frowned. “I don't want to know whether I'm seen or not.”
“And mostly you don't care?”
“And sometimes I don't care.”