Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. ’ ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Gerald said grimly. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. .
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