Roddy muffed two. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. “In a sense—yes. Until this instant, he discovered, he had thought of Melusine’s plan only in a nebulous fashion, a naïve girl’s dream. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Not Trodger. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance.
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