It was cheating, pitiful cheating. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about. ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged. Then she saw him. ’ ‘Truly?’ Melusine said excitedly. I know what I am talking about. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate.
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