It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. He was as hard as a rock. Suddenly remembering Kimble, her heart thudded with excitement. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. ’ ‘Yes, do so,’ rejoined Melusine enthusiastically. Look somewhere else in life.
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