"I dare not, Rowland," she answered. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. "The natives have foolish ways of saying things. In nearly every speech she heard was the same implication of great and necessary changes in the world—changes to be won by effort and sacrifice indeed, but surely to be won. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. “She will take her risk,” she answered. 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. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. It was easy to imagine great power in such a man. It must be somewhere hereabouts.
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