Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. He did not even care for his own inheritance at this place in Wodeham Water. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death.
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