"Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. I was the last on board. 1703. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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