’ ‘You know, Gerald,’ Lucilla put in thoughtfully, forestalling a withering rejoinder from the captain, ‘there may be something in that. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. And Gerald— Melusine swallowed on an unaccountable lump in her throat. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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