’ He paused, but Melusine caught the inference. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. It is necessary. He stood back and held her shoulders. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Mr. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself.
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