She hastened past. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room.
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