The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. ‘Do not beg his pardon,’ intervened Melusine quickly, coming between them. “So you’d best open your coffers. Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears—oh!" "If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece.
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