” He drew a little nearer to her. It was so hopeless to put it to them. ” Miss Pellissier stiffened visibly. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. All the world over a wedding procession arouses laughter and derision in the bystanders. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Idiote. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. “I don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. Soup would help you feel better, soup and hot tea. ‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig.
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