She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o’clock. ‘For kissing you, or for not meaning to do so?’ ‘Imbecile,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. Sheppard, fervently. They were so good to me. I always wondered why he bought my mother's pearls so readily.
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