’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. ‘Open the door, fool!’ Then he had Melusine by the shoulders and was hustling her into the hackney. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Darrell. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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