There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. Mr. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. Hope reared. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room.
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