“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. After he had eaten dinner with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such as he had heard only in the great concert halls. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand.
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