He was entranced as she walked towards him. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you.
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