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276 He opened the box. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. She is curiously altered in many ways. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. She had no intention of fighting fair. ’ Melusine sighed in a satisfied way. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street.
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