That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. His spirits began to rise. Earles drew out his cheque book. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. ‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs Ibstock.
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