“No. It’s old Tullibard’s, but it’s left here to save the trouble of moving it anywhere else. Well, and so you’re off on another of your mysterious expeditions, the child tells me. Look out, Varne. The bucket that goes down the well too often—you know the old copybook chestnut.”
“Yes, and like all others of its kind, there’s a fallacy behind it,” laughed Varne.
“Perhaps. Come along then. This infernal room’s giving me the cold shivers. I believe I got a touch of the sun on the way back. Anyhow, I’m not feeling at all the thing.”
After their guest had left, the remainder of the day, radiant, golden, cloudless as it was, seemed to take on a gloom to one of them. What a very perfect companion he was, thought Melian. She wished he were a near neighbour instead of putting in sporadic appearances, and then vanishing for ever so long. She had refrained from telling him her troubles, not wanting to spoil their splendid morning ramble; now he was gone, for a long time perhaps, she regretted her reticence. Later she had reason to regret it more.
They were seated at supper. The blinds were down and the lamp burned cheerfully. Outside, a sudden gust swirled round the corner of the house, setting the woodland trees rustling.
“Ah—ah!” said Melian. “That spells change. I thought it was too perfectly clear to last.”
Another gust stronger than the first, followed upon her words.
“Why, it is coming on to blow,” she went on. “And look; it has blown the old cellar door open.”
She was sitting so as to face this. Mervyn with his back to it. She could not fail to notice the sudden, almost startled look as he turned quickly to follow the direction of her glance.