The three of them laughed joyously. Melusine circled her adversary only far enough to give herself the aisle between the pews behind. An old woman took her in. Mere formality. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. ‘I suppose this is the cavalier you had with you when you—er—attended the ball the other night?’ ‘Jacques is very useful to me,’ Melusine confirmed, bestowing that same radiant smile on the young man, whose features were instantly suffused with scarlet. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. I wish they would just get it over with. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. Those with true power were the Oracles.
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