It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. She had nothing to say for herself. Melusine whirled. The villain has enjoyed his security too long. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. In vain Wood protested his innocence.
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