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“I don’t know. ” Presently, as if for comparison with her father’s letter, she got out Ramage’s check from the box that contained her papers. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. ‘No, but I seen the light, sir. . ’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield. She helped him take it off.

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