Wood. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. Melusine fetched her stool and plonked it down next to her great-aunt’s chair. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue.
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