I am called Melusine. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. It presented a cleanshaven face with a large Corinthian nose, hair tremendously waving off the forehead and more chin and neck than is good for a man. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. You are a girl with very little. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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