She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. “I’ve got bad faults. She walked with an easy quickness down the Avenue and through the proletarian portion of Morningside Park, and crossing these fields came into a pretty overhung lane that led toward Caddington and the Downs.
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