Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. ’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night.
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