She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness.
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