Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. The kiss was powerfully moving. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. ‘No need to shake in your boots,’ Gerald said soothingly. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker.
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