His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. " "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. He threw her on the bed. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. You were only one room removed from the library, see. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.
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