“But—your people!” she gasped. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. She still had her letter of credit. He was asleep when Jonathan entered, and growled at being disturbed. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once.
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