She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. ’ ‘But it is a very good English name,’ she protested. Yes!" she screamed, "these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!" "Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?" "I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast. ’ ‘A life of ease?’ repeated Melusine. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll.
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