"Of course. As often as you can."
She extended her hands. Stannard, the suave, had considerable difficulty in managing his hat and umbrella.
"Thanks." He spoke gruffly. "I'll remember that. No; I can manage the front door. Thanks again. Good-night"
The door, closing heavily after him, made a hollow vibration. For a moment Ruth stood staring at the door. Then she returned to the sitting-room. Though both windows were wide open to the warm July night, she made a feint of attempting to push them higher to let the smoke out. Martin Drake, his back partly turned, was standing by the fireplace lighting a cigarette. Ruth went softly over to the grand piano and sat down.
She hesitated. Common-sense, practicality, shone In the dark-brown eyes as she lifted her head; a perplexity verging on impatience.. But this expression faded, with a wry twist of the mouth, as she began to play.
The tune was Someday I’ll Find You. It s saccharine notes riffled and rippled, softly, through the room and faintly out into the square.
"Ruth!"
"Yes, Martin?’
"You're one of the finest persons I ever met," said the young man, and threw his cigarette into the fireplace. "But would you mind not playing that?"
Ruth closed her eyes, the lids shiny and dark-fringed, and opened them again, "I'm sorry, Martin." Her fingers rested motionless. Without looking round Ruth added, "Still searching for her?"