She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. "It is droll," he said. “I was sick of the make-believe. ” “And our destinations also, it seems,” she added, smiling. Looking for something, or someone, probably. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities.
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