She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. You really are extremely stupid, Melusine. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. He resumed his listening. “Yes, I believe he is. “These are her rooms,” she said.
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