She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. Following him, and acting out of instinct rather than intent, Melusine took a firm grasp of the gilt frame with both hands, lifted it high in the air and, with a shrieking curse, brought it down hard. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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