As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. “Better state of mind,” she gasped. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. I hate what I have to do to survive. ‘Melusine. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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