He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. ‘Do not beg his pardon,’ intervened Melusine quickly, coming between them. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. I could not love you else. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse.
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