‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. He had been quite right to sit down. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary.
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