He handed Ruth a letter. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ’ ‘Comment? But already he has made this visit—in town. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. Is this a reason?’ ‘Not good enough? Now I had every hope that it would appeal to you.
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