She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. She almost submitted to this ending of her adventure. She confided in me yesterday. Too bad he’s not interested in any girl who’s not a musician. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. You know, Melusine.
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