He turned to Mrs. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. Get a license—just an idea of mine. I drew out what I had saved and boarded the first ship out.
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