She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that.
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