It worked. Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. ‘And me—’ ‘You, mademoiselle, are more trouble than you’re worth, and I’ll thank you to —’ ‘Hilary, don’t,’ said Lucy, and Melusine’s rising temper cooled a little. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary.
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