I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire.
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