It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Killed is too kind a word. And then suddenly—a relief. His literary instincts began to stir. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. ‘Major, sir!’ The major appeared so swiftly that Melusine was instantly suspicious. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use.
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