It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. I am called Melusine. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me. " "The pianist?" "Yes. " "None whatever," rejoined Wild. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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