She picked up the hand cannon. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. This year—I’ve got it badly. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. She stood without motion and without strength. I rarely set foot in London these days. I said, that day at Surbiton, ‘There’s many good things in life, but there’s only one best, and that’s the wild-haired girl who’s pulling away at that oar. I haven’t, anyhow. A queer nut.
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