“I do mean that,” she declared. ’ A sudden thought brought a frown to her brow. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. The thought of beauty became an obsession. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. ‘Ah. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. And for many years, that was the way it was.
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