This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in.
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