None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. A time may come,—and that ere long,—when you will be glad to purchase my secrets, and your own safety, at a dearer price than the heads of your companions. ’ Melusine shrugged.
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