A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. In Old Palace Yard everybody ran.
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