I couldn’t help the thought. His tone was rough, almost threatening. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. I can’t even make myself care. He turned back at once. For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. The young ladies in the somewhat mixed society amongst which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. He jumped back, cursing. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream.
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