Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. ’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell.
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