Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. Playing became a way of escape. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. I love you calling me Gérard and idiot, and I love you when you threaten me with every weapon under the sun, and—’ ‘Pah!’ interrupted Melusine, scorn in her voice. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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