She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. “Why?” he asked, suavely. ” He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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