She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. No surprise, for Melusine was aware no Frenchman in his situation would dream of walking abroad unarmed. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land.
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