He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded.
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