Melusine fetched her stool and plonked it down next to her great-aunt’s chair. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue.
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