126 Lucy drank them as the first rays of watery sunlight seeped through the mullioned windows, then put their husks in the claw-footed bathtub. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. The manager twisted his moustache. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. If he recovers he may not accuse her. Yes; she had heard the music the night before. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable.
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