Go away,’ came fretfully from Prudence Sindlesham, and Melusine heaved a sigh as she looked towards the butler, who was making his stately way to the door. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. His literary instincts were reviving. The truth at once flashed across his mind. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not at all sympathique. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales.
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