An uncomfortable silence followed. She had but to choose. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. He built her the most beautiful castle 242 in the world in the desert, carving fountains where real water ran and gardens in a place where no plant had ever bloomed. “You see the pointer?” he asked. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. And it's uncanny. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her.
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