As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. But no more of that. His example was followed by Darrell. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders.
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