Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Where is your hat?’ ‘Parbleu, is this a way to rescue me?’ Melusine demanded, digging in her heels and wrenching her arm out of his hold. ’ ‘What for?’ asked Gerald, half laughing, as he put his hand in his pocket and brought out his elegant pistol. It was locked. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little.
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