er to
get the desired color, a few days later.

"Yes, red," I persisted. "Not too bright, not impudent scarlet, but a
dull, rich shade that will give out a gleam when the light strikes it;
that will have the force of a threat--a menacing color, that white
collar, cuffs and black lace shoulder wrap will restrict to
governess-like primness, until, with mantle torn aside, she stands a
pillar of fire and fury. And at the last I want a night-dress and a
loose robe over it of a hard light blue, that will throw up the ghastly
pallor of the face. There--that's what I want to wear, and why I want to
wear it."

Mr. Palmer decided that purple was impossible and black too conventional,
while the proposed color-scheme of gray, red, and blue seemed reasonable
and characteristic. And suddenly that little wretch, Cazauran, laughed as
good-naturedly as possible and said he thought so, too, but it did no
harm to talk things over, and so we got around that snag, only to see a
second one looming up before us in the question of what was to kill _Miss
Multon_.

I asked it: "Of what am I to die?"

"Die? how? Why, just die, that's all," replied Cazauran.

"But _of_ what?" I persisted; "what kills me? _Miss Multon_ at present
dies simply that the author may get rid of her. I don't want to be
laughed at. We are not in the days of 'Charlotte Temple'--we suffer, but
we live. To die of a broken heart is to be guyed, unless there is an
aneurism. Now what can _Miss Multon_ die from? If I once know that, I'll
find out the proper business for the scene."

"Perhaps you'd have some of the men carry knives," sneered Cazauran, "and
then she could be stabbed?"

"Oh, no!" I answered; "knives are not necessary for the stabbing of a
woman; a few sharp, envenomed words can do that nicely--but we are
speaking of death, not wounds; from what is _Miss Multon_ to die?"

Then Mr. Palmer made suggestions, and Miss Morris made suggestions, and
Mr. Cazauran triumphantly wiped them out of existence. But at last
Cazauran himself grudgingly remarked that consumption would do well
enough, and Mr. Palmer and I, as with one vengeful voice, cried out,
_Camille!_ And Cazauran said some things like "Nom de Dieu!" or "Dieu de
Dieu!" and I said: "Chassez a droite," but the little man was vexed and
would not laugh.

Someone proposed a fever--but I raised the contagion question. Poison was
thought of, but that would prevent the summoning of the children from
Paris, by _