Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “I do want you. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips.
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