Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. “Mr. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Voilà tout. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. .
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