It was empty. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. She could feel her face turning beet red. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. This mitigated her remorse enormously. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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