And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. ’ Melusine had crossed to the window that overlooked the front of the house, and was trying to peep through a crack in the shutters. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once.
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