Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. We two. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. “I shan’t eat him. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. ‘This was a picture of Mary Remenham that I have found today.
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