Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. “You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. Because Leonardo, he made me see that I can be someone. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. Too late. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Anywhere! Moonlight and music—pleasing, you know, but quite unnecessary. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness.
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