Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. ‘Before she can think of marriage, Melusine must prove her identity. Half a minute, Vee. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. English a little! ‘You ought to have English only. ” “I plead guilty, Miss Pellissier,” he answered at once. "That's it!"—eagerly.
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