It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly.
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