She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. She came originally of country stock, and had been virtually in sole charge of Melusine almost from the hour of her birth—a thankless task, as Melusine had heard her bemoan countless times, with the rider that she had carried it out with a conspicuous lack of success. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some precious sport. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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