He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “I did it for love of you,” he said. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. Come every day to see you was flourishing. He was in a curious state of desperation. “I see the pointer,” she said. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. She even hit the jackpot in 1952 when she found a photograph in a London issue of Vogue. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. He savored the last solo, the coda. Once upon a time she and Roddy had descended thence by the drain-pipe.
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