I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. . ’ ‘I do not think so,’ Melusine agreed, still puzzled. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. She felt like a dried-up old woman. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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