Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. We mustn’t make it so. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. ‘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. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them.
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