part in the events I have undertaken in some degree to set forth. And yet the reader who likes a complete image, who desires to read with the senses as well as with the reason, is entreated not to forget that he prolonged his consonants and swallowed his vowels, that he was guilty of elisions and interpolations which were equally unexpected, and that his discourse was pervaded by something sultry and vast, something almost African in its rich, basking tone, something that suggested the teeming expanse of the cotton-field. Mrs. Luna looked up at all this, but saw only a part of it; otherwise she would not have replied in a bantering manner, in answer to his inquiry: 'Are you ever different from this?' Mrs. Luna was familiar—intolerably familiar.
Basil Ransom coloured a little. Then he said: 'Oh yes; when I dine out I usually carry a six-shooter and a bowie-knife.' And he took up his hat vaguely—a soft black hat with a low crown and an immense straight brim. Mrs. Luna wanted to know what he was doing. She made him sit down; she assured him that her sister quite expected him, would feel as sorry as she could ever feel for anything—for she was a kind of fatalist, anyhow—if he didn't stay to dinner. It was an immense pity she herself was going out; in Boston you must jump at invitations. Olive, too, was going somewhere after dinner, but he mustn't mind that; perhaps he would like to go with her. It wasn't a party—Olive didn't go to parties; it was one of those weird meetings she was so fond of.
'What kind of meetings do you refer to? You speak as if it were a rendezvous of witches on the Brocken.'
'Well, so it is; they are all witches and wizards, mediums, and spirit-rappers, and roaring radicals.'
Basil Ransom stared; the yellow light in his brown eyes deepened. 'Do you mean to say your sister's a roaring radical?'
'A radical? She's a female Jacobin—she's a nihilist. Whatever is, is wrong, and all that sort of thing. If you are going to dine with her, you had better know it.'
'Oh, murder!' murmured the young man vaguely, sinking back in his chair with his arms folded. He looked at Mrs. Luna with intelligent incredulity. She was
