It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. ‘You! Tell this fool who is the keeper here to come to me at once. . ’ ‘Eh?’ Almost Melusine betrayed herself at his startled look. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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