The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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