” “But Hainault—was—a pal. ” Sir John smiled. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. Balked, Melusine halted. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture.
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