“I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. And now, my angel, that I am acquainted with your sentiments on this subject, I shall readily fulfil a promise which I made to your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father.
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