" "I should like a little of that plum-tart," said Mrs. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. ’ Disappointment flooded her. He had to know the truth, Melusine. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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