Lucy stood in front of the piano. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. She had warned him. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. You will find the proof in McClintock's safe. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. There was—a service.
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