He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. He did not love Ruth.
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