It is you who took my name, not I yours. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. Above her head was an aura of white fire. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room.
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