What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did. ’ ‘Then Gérard may come back,’ Melusine cried involuntarily on a sudden rising hope.
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