His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. The flat was apparently empty. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. ’ Saling coughed. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. ’ ‘Melusine!’ came sharply from the doorway. “None, I thank you,” he answered. Her name was Rhea.
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