‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. He destroyed her clumsily made dolls whenever he found them. He was part of the firm Martyska, Seeberg, and Diedermayer. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour.
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