It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Pah! Damned Frenchified—’ ‘If you say again,’ threatened Melusine, moving to meet him like a jungle cat poised for the kill, ‘this scorn of a thing French, monsieur le baron, I shall be compelled to give you this apoplexy of which she speaks, madame. “Am I dull?” she said. Close upon this came another thought.
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