He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Then the foremost bowed and passed on. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. He was suddenly calm. ‘He just came. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon.
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