‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. “Martin, I don’t know what to say. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. He had known she would be shocked, but he was equally certain Melusine would have refused to see her grandfather had she been forewarned. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. “We can be alone?” She inquired. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked.
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