I will endeavour. . ’ It was thus in stony silence that the pair traversed the short distance to Stratton Street, where Roding knocked on the major’s door and entered a pleasant woodpanelled hall, with his prisoner firmly in tow. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. ’ ‘But you are not a surgeon,’ protested Melusine. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. Still, that leaves over a million shrines short, not reckoning widows who re-marry.
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