‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. I must provide for my safety. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. But you belong to me—and I want you. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it.
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