I must go perhaps in all the rooms. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. See paragraph 1. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him.
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