He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. She could manage the major. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation.
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