A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. Then you will begin to see. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle.
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