“If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you. Profligate women are never reclaimed. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. The campaign’s a success. He’s got flowers. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. Soon I shall make my début, that it will be known that I am the real Melusine Charvill, and then I shall not require the services any longer of this imbecile of a Gérard. I'll think no more about her. And will you look! His name neatly cut out from each title page. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. If Miss Charvill should take it into her head to dash off on some foolish errand, go with her by all means. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights.
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