’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. ‘Open the door, fool!’ Then he had Melusine by the shoulders and was hustling her into the hackney. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. We find out no man will treat a woman fairly as man to man—no man. We can’t even protect them from themselves. Here a little delay occurred. I may say she does not sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. It was the gratification of an immense necessity.
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