The young man did not know what he was doing or where he was. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. “Time for my Patience,” she said. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train. "Yes; he'll suspect nothing.
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