Contests were held every year, the type of which depended on her caprice. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘What was Leonardo to you?’ Melusine was instantly on the defensive.
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