” “Some little tiff?” “No; but I don’t think I shall see them. “It’s—private. He looked about for his hat, and put it on. "Look at it!" he felt like screaming. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. "But don't ever let me see them again. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Sir John stood upon the threshold. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. .
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