He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. And the situation it makes!—the situation!” Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Melusine jumped up, turning swiftly. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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