’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. F. Melusine fetched her stool and plonked it down next to her great-aunt’s chair. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it.
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