She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ’ ‘It is money you mean, no?’ Melusine asked with scorn. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. She had remained patently unavailable to him. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. .
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