“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. To reach the door they had to pass the end of the table, and behind the chair where Mr. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. ‘I have no idea. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition.
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