. ’ She shook her head sadly. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. It isn’t the same thing. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. “I’ve been thinking of you all night,” she answered.
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