But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. You called yourself a murderess. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well. ‘Because he knows you for an imposter,’ Melusine flashed.
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