She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. And so your Melusine is busy trying to prove that she is the real one. Manning might go on now idealizing her as much as he liked. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. It got on my nerves—the women I saw.
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