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Martha had been careful to make no mention of Melusine, and did not reply to Mrs Ibstock’s enquiry about the fate of the little babe. The lady grasped it more firmly and turned it upon Hilary. “It is Rhea’s infant. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. Lucy sighed.
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