“There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was—looks like a gold

brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.”

 

“Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in the

water.”

 

“Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?”

 

“Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.”

 

“People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of pleasure—worse

racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.”

 

Flora laughed.

 

“I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old enough to be

her father.”

 

He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a change of

manner, he turned to Flora.

 

“Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean. I know how dreadfully

anxious you must be.”

 

“Thank you,” said Flora in a cold voice. “There is really nothing to be done.