Lucilla broke across Melusine’s thoughts. He looked fiercely and inquiringly from one to the other of his companions; but, though both of them were excessively frightened, neither appeared guilty. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said.
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