Missy felt a wave of icy horror sweep down her spine. She wanted to
cry out in protest. For, even while she stared at them, at Aunt
Isabel in pink organdie and Mr. Saunders in blue serge dividing the
flasket of soda between them, a vision presented itself clearly
before her eyes:
La Beale Isoud slenderly tall in a straight girdled gown of grey-
green velvet, head thrown back so that her filleted golden hair
brushed her shoulders, violet eyes half-closed, and an "antique"-
looking flasket clasped in her two slim hands; and Sir Tristram so
imperiously dark and handsome in his crimson, fur-trimmed doublet,
his two hands stretched out and gripping her two shoulders, his
black eyes burning as if to look through her closed lids--the
magical love-potion. . . love that never would depart for weal
neither for woe. . .
Missy closed her eyes tight, as if fearing what they might behold in
the flesh. But when she opened them again, Aunt Isabel was only
gazing into the drained flasket with a rueful expression.
Then they went back and got another soda for Uncle Charlie.
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