Chaminade’s “The Flatterer” followed. In the midst of this the door opened quietly and closed again. Melissy finished, fingered her music, and became somehow aware that she was not alone. She turned unhurriedly on the seat and met the smiling eyes of her husband.
From his high-heeled boots to his black, glossy hair, Black MacQueen was dusty with travel. Beside him was a gunny sack, tied in the middle and filled at both ends. Picturesque he was and always would be, but his present costume scarce fitted the 335 presence of a lady. Yet of this he gave no sign. He was leaning back in a morris chair, rakish, debonair, and at his ease. Evidently, he had been giving appreciative ear to the music, and more appreciative eye to the musician.
“So it’s you,” said Melissy, white to the lips.
MacQueen arose, recovered his dusty hat from the floor, and bowed theatrically. “Your long-lost husband, my dear.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m visiting my wife. The explanation seems a trifle obvious.”
“What do you want?”
“Have I said I wanted anything?”
“Then you had better leave. I’ll give you up if I get a chance.”
He looked at her with lazy derision. “I like you angry. Your eyes snap electricity, sweet.”