His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. But she made no answer. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. Moving room to room it was. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head.
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