He advanced a step towards her. Something softened in Melusine’s chest. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. It was his turn to express astonishment. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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