“I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly.
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