“Lucy, you. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. How old are you?’ ‘I have nineteen years, and it is quite unimportant. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled.
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