Mrs. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her anger died and she eyed him. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. The arrest of this person is of consequence to me. He was disquieted. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. It was easy to imagine great power in such a man.
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