Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. To get behind that impenetrable curtain, to learn why she hated her island. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose.
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