About halfway across this interval, when everything seemed going well, Capes had a shock. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. F. Lord Charvill’s sense of justice would not, however, allow him to repudiate his granddaughter, if indeed this female proved to be the infant lost to the family so many years ago. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. “Okay. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. She backed away, amazed as the thing buzzed loudly in the center of the room. “It was,” she admitted. ‘Aye, sir. E.
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