These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. I've always been more or less music-mad. She was beautiful once, Lucia. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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