’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. Abruptly, Gerald turned. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. . Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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