Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. I was looking for rooms last week. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. The way—the way we are led on! We are taught to believe we are free in the world, to think we are queens. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. ’ ‘It cannot be helped now.
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