There was—a service. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. ’ ‘So this is the way you serve me,’ exclaimed Melusine, her quick temper flaring as she jumped up, slammed her hands on the desk and leaned towards him over it. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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