" "Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the watch upon us. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. "I thought you were asleep. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters.
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