And he liked her. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. With the immediate necessities in train, Melusine fell to brooding on her situation, which she found insupportable. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Then he got up and left her. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk.
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