"He'd risk anything to get what
he thought were his rights. But not upon a bed for a raft. He'd write to
London for the latest thing in coracles. He's very conventional."
"You have to be," said Chevenix with sudden energy. He wheeled round upon
her as he spoke. "We all have to be. We go by clockwork. You get the
striking all wrong if you play tricks." He resumed the photograph. "By
Jove, but that suits you. Child of Nature, what? I suppose you're happiest
when you're larking?"
"Mud-larking?" she asked him, laughing and blushing.
"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.
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