He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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