\"Oh. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. “Ask me nothing. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. They order me to get my man, and I get him. I did not know that you had even 244 started writing a symphony. I shall not part with you again. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. Fortescue?” “At your service. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
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