James Boyle O'Higgins knew little or nothing of the South Seas, but he knew human beings, all colours. The latch had not fully caught. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Melusine saw fire in his eyes and a streak of heat rushed through her to match it. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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