CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. Give me the books. ’ Relief flooded Melusine. But here I am to draw upon. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. “If you come a step nearer to me,” she said, “I will smash every glass on this table.
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