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"Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. “But your sister,” he said. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. You may have something to conceal, you may not. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Part 4 MY DEAR VEE, he wrote. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. “Where are they?” She looked around. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house.
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