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The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. ‘And so?’ she asked. Her mouth at half-cock, Melusine stood there staring at him. And then they disgorged. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry.
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