His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Daughters were not like sons. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. ’ ‘What husband?’ ‘Precisely.
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