At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Cathy Beck was outraged. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it.
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