” She said. She wedged the towel between her legs. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Nothing at all. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Took and ran away when she got herself with child. ’” “Yes?” “I think—yes, I went on in a pleasing blend of the casual and sotto voce, ‘The fact of it is, sir, I happen to be your son-in-law, Capes. Rank ingratitude, I call it. He had known she would be shocked, but he was equally certain Melusine would have refused to see her grandfather had she been forewarned. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. He was followed with equal celerity by Terence and the widow.
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