‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. ‘I suppose this is the cavalier you had with you when you—er—attended the ball the other night?’ ‘Jacques is very useful to me,’ Melusine confirmed, bestowing that same radiant smile on the young man, whose features were instantly suffused with scarlet. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. I knew it. That’s one thing clear. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room. .
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