Don’t ask me how. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. ‘Do not beg his pardon,’ intervened Melusine quickly, coming between them. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. Wood. He’s just. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room.
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