"Perhaps. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. . . "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. ’ He clenched his fists and grew red in the face. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car. ‘You! Tell this fool who is the keeper here to come to me at once. It’s these damned novels.
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