THE ORDEAL OF IDA PENDRAGON
“ Ida Pendragon.
But call me Poppy, because my lips
are red, because I give sleep, and death ! "
Α pause.
“ And your name, nice boy?”
" Edgar RollesAyou may call me Monkshood.”
“ What—the Edgar Rolles ? ”
“ As ever is."
"Oh, they’ll hang you!
They’ll certainly hang you! for
that last book of yours.
.
.
. But you shall hang here first.”
Her long white fingers went to her neck, like a cuttle—fish
feeling for its prey.
Her eyes closed: her throat worked
convulsively for a moment.
Rolles too leaned back, pale
with excitement.
He drank the fresh air.
Then, like a man
shot, he lifted himself and fell forward, his head in the nest
of her bosom.
“ Please sit up and behave sensibly, Mr Rolles
! " was the
next word that fell on his ears.
“ We are crossing the Seine.
Passion may not pass the gloomy river
; here stalks Vice, and
the
Englishman on its heels.
The very coffee sent son
Anglais."
" Et les femmes," muttered Edgar.
She slapped his hand half fiercely.
“ It's Poster Art of immorality.”
”I remember going with an American girl to the Guignol
once.
They played a comedy one could have acted in a
Sunday—school in Glasgow;
but Verro-nika, as they called
her, who didn’t
understand a word of French,
said the
atmosphere was one of the most awful lust.
Poor girl
!
she
had paid a lot to see Yurrup and its wickedness.
I had not
the heart to undeceive her.”
“ You sympathised, and offered to take her away ? "
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