"There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. "I have a token to deliver to you," continued the stranger, addressing her. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. It isn’t. We dine at seven-thirty. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. Deep silences came between them. Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits.
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