She blushed at the idea. It agitated her. She
had not felt agitated when she ran away with Dorrimore--just a pleasant
thrill of excitement, a sense of adventure; that was all. Dorrimore had
made downright love to her; he had called her all the pet names in
fashion. His admiration flattered and amused her, nothing more. Vane
hadn't made love--at least it didn't seem to her that he had. But there
are so many ways of making love!
"Hampstead's miles away," she mused. "If I go there we shall hardly ever
see each other. At all events I ought to tell him where I shall be
living. It won't be a surprise. He thinks I'm a fine lady and it's the
fashion for fine ladies to go to Hampstead at this time of the year. It
might make him jealous though," she added thoughtfully, "if he knows of
the lovemaking by moonlight Hannah talked about."
She could decide upon nothing, and rather than loiter in Holborn while
trying to solve the problem she entered Great Turnstile passage and
presently was in the quietude of Lincoln's Inn Fields. At night she
would not have ventured to cross this big open space haunted as it was
after dark by footpads and pickpockets, but at that early hour of the
morning there was nothing to fear. Only a few people were about and in
the enclosure railed off from the roadway by posts was a horse being
broken in. The theatre was a link between her and Lancelot Vane and
thinking of him she walked towards it.
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