CHAPTER XXII. ’ ‘Emile Gosse,’ Melusine said flatly, in the same language. Here we go, thought Gerald. Milice,’ Gerald translated. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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