“It is just a look. ‘I know, Melusine. ” “Oh my goodness. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Then her eyes flashed. She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist. E.
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