"Leave the room instantly, sirrah!" rejoined the lady, bouncing up, and giving him a slap on the cheek that made his eyes flash fire. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. She pointed across the road.
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