’ ‘Melusine,’ shrieked the nun. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. The theme was a masquerade.
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