Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Come back with me to-night. ’ ‘You say—what?’ gasped Melusine. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day.
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