But although startled and clearly afraid, there was no self-consciousness in her gaze and she was standing her ground. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. He had to know the truth, Melusine. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that.
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