Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. ‘I suppose this is the cavalier you had with you when you—er—attended the ball the other night?’ ‘Jacques is very useful to me,’ Melusine confirmed, bestowing that same radiant smile on the young man, whose features were instantly suffused with scarlet. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. “I want you to kiss me,” she said. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance.
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