When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed.
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