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’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. "What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up.
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