Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris.
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