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His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. Melusine got to her feet and, tucking her shoulder under his arm on the uninjured side, put her arm about him to hold his waist, and thus contrived to take most of his weight. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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