‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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