“He and I don’t seem to get on at all with our fellow-guests, as Mrs. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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