There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. Melusine turned to look at the walls, and saw, immediately opposite, set between two candelabra above a marquetry side table, a gilded mirror. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Petals!. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. She could not move. I don’t care. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. “Those things are not for me just at present. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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