’ Miss Froxfield intervened quickly as her betrothed showed signs of erupting again. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. Having secured this implement, he burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally spring into the clockfaces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the pantomime,—that is, back foremost,— broke into a fit of loud and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the boards. It’s not far from twilight. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. .
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