’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition.
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