” “You have been to her?” he asked. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. ’ The fury welled. ” “You all seem to be trying to pull my leg,” Sir John remarked quietly. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being.
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