“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night.
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