“Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. 1703. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study.
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