’ ‘Don’t you believe it. ” She lifted her eyebrows. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. The musician. I said I’d do anything. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. I don’t think you understand.
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