To-morrow I am going to Paris. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. How will I get an Englishman to wed me if they know that I behave not at all comme il faut?’ ‘Perhaps the Englishman in question will not care,’ suggested Prudence, with a twinkle in her eye for which Melusine was quite unable to account. This was no light conquest; nor was it a government easily maintained. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents.
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