‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Let me only wear your livery. I always wondered why he bought my mother's pearls so readily. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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