It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. And you tell me that the reason you are doing all this is so that you can marry an Englishman!’ Melusine giggled. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower.
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