At once there came an answering knock. Rousing himself, he went to the door. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. I have given up painting. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. When she came to herself, she found that her brother had quitted the room, leaving her to the care of a female attendant.
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