Melusine came close again, and reached up a finger tentatively to the face depicted there. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. He had to know the truth, Melusine.
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