“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. But her words were not addressed to Melusine. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: “It’s a bother and disturbance, but you see—” She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. She finished the olive and looked up. Promise me one thing before I leave you. Michelle seemed so innocent and sweet. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her.
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