She gloried in it: he needed her. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. ’ Her eyes narrowed. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. ’ *** Gerald Alderley stepped out of a house he had been visiting in Hamilton Place and the door closed behind him.
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