’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. ’ Lucilla frowned. ” “Never for a second. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. ’ ‘Of course you weren’t there,’ snapped Hilary. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered.
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