“You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. Hell's curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in.
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