"No; they're mine; all that's left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels."
But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes.
"Your artist man is rather extraordinary," she said. "Why should any one so attractive need to be so bashful?"
"He's not really bashful.—There, I think you'll find everything you need."
The light twinkled on a tray of yellowish glasses on the sideboard. George unlocked the cupboard, took out a bottle, and split open a new box of cigarettes with his thumbnail. There's a consolation in having these small things to do, he thought. Meanwhile, what am I really thinking of? I suppose she's washing her hands. It's awkward having her downstairs. She'll want to change. . . . I don't believe she's got a mirror in there. We can hardly expect her to use the bookcase panes.
"Excuse me a moment," he said. "Ben, pour the tonic. It's good stuff." Mr. Martin was still standing by the door uncertainly, holding the toy engine. Heavens, does the fellow have to be moved round like a chess man? He's so difficult to talk to, somehow. George made a cordial
