He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. He would take with him that traitress Yolande, and claim to the lawyer that this was Melusine Charvill. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Wood. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.
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