“What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. I don’t know that I understand altogether. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. I haven’t, anyhow.
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