The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. Certainly I never met him. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion.
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