“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary. \" Lucy shook her hand. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. He had seldom been more perturbed. “Very good,” he said. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. “You’re burning up. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. He did his best not to grin. She will not confide in me.
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