Her aunt went off at a tangent. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. Now then, missie—’ ‘Bon,’ said Melusine, interrupting him without ceremony, and paying no attention to the muskets that were pointing at her from two directions. It reverberated in the silence. The air was pungent and leaden. But probably not the truth. She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. " "It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. .
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