If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. She prevaricated. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back.
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