"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. “Michelle, I don’t ever want to hear you mention the subject you mentioned at dinner again.
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