She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. ‘No!’ Melusine snapped as he tugged at the thing. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. I know you’re young but I think I, no, I know that I love you. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. Then she looked up at Brendon. He was there concealed, waiting her return.
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