Presently he turned to Courtlaw. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. And the less “anything” happened the better. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song.
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