His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. In his way he was critical. “I have not quarrelled with her. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. This morning his entourage (as he jestingly called it) consisted of the girl, two spinsters (Prudence and Angelina Jedson), prim and doubtful of the world, and the young man who appeared to be considerably the worse for the alcohol he had consumed. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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