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“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Certainly I cannot kill you if you tell me to do so. She must have the capability to learn magic, to learn the enchantments that add to her power. I’m talking to you now as though you had all the wisdom and charity in the world. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. Am I going to die?” “I am afraid that you are in a dangerous state,” Courtlaw answered gravely. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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