“I’d never have a day of peace again, John. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights.
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