It was open. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. Nor can we. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. Her head rose. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. All this was exciting and entertaining. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared.
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