The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. ’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing.
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