CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. No doubt that was due to his helplessness. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. “I do not blame him. ‘You do not want to be a nun,’ he said now, and Melusine noted with a prick at her senses the irritation in his tone. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. For a long time neither spoke again.
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