He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. She helped him take it off. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “But your sister,” he said. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood.
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