He moaned. . ’ She saw suspicion darken his gaze. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed.
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