‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment.
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