His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. Leastways, not on your own. Cahill gave me a hall pass. I hadn’t heard of him before the trial. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. That was the true marvel of it. It would not have interested him in the least to learn that the tub ran on two powers—wind and oil. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. He removed his cocked hat and came towards her. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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