She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. 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. “She doesn’t know. "In favour of my son. Bullding,” she declared. He had him removed from the Condemned Hold, stripped of his fine apparel, clothed in the most sordid rags, loaded with additional fetters, and thrust into the Stone Hold,—already described as the most noisome cell in the whole prison. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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