‘You know what I am about,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. At last—I told a story. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. She was drawn first by Miss Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders of contemporary life. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. “Reuben, come here. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. . ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. I thought that he was dead. ‘I wish you joy of the wench.
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