’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. . “I want a vote for myself,” she said. Melusine giggled, and tucked her hand into his. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. . A remittance man. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. "I was coming to give you intelligence of a comical trick played by this rascal, when I find him here—the last place, I own, where I should have expected to find him. Close upon this came another thought.
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