. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. Winny, show the person into this room. ’ Melusine’s eyes misted. Herein was the sum of human knowledge in essence. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. There were shadows under his eyes. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. After a little further discourse the old man took his departure.
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