This door, which was open, Jonathan locked and took out the key. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. Pioneers all of them. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. A lesson learned. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor.
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