Now do you see?’ Melusine frowned. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. . . You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it.
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