For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. ‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows.
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