She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. “And now, look at us! See what we have become. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. ‘Melusine. Not very long, if you want to get well.
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