The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. He walked in her direction. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks. We are amiable to one another, but we don’t mix. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money.
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