’ ‘Yes, but I have not gone,’ Melusine said impatiently. ‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No.
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