Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. The young man did not know what he was doing or where he was. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. But over against the world Miss Miniver assembled a small but energetic minority, the Children of Light—people she described as “being in the van,” or “altogether in the van,” about whom Ann Veronica’s mind was disposed to be more sceptical.
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