There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. Melusine seized her chance. Come to take leave. It was true. You won't often see white folks. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. "It is droll," he said. I don’t know that I understand altogether.
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