The clock struck half-past ten. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. The Well Hole. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly.
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