’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. Poor little one. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. B. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life.
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