It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘But I have told you. Blueskin is booked. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. I should have gone mad without it. The only difficulties that presented themselves clearly to her were the difficulties of getting away from Morningside Park, and not the difficulties at the other end of the journey.
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