“There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was⁠—looks like a gold brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.”

“Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in the water.”

“Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively⁠—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?”

“Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.”

“People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of pleasure⁠—worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.”

Flora laughed.

“I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old enough to be her father.”

He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a change of manner, he turned to Flora.