She bounced onto her bottom. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible.
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