‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off.
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