Miraculously, her schoolmates were so upswept in their own summer planning that they had no time to interrogate her. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.
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