Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. ’ His brows rose. I want to make my own selection. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Her disapproval was obvious enough. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. E.
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