“I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. Challenge accepted. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. I wonder if she has any idea how oddly beautiful she is?" Ruth at that precise moment was engaged by a relative wonder. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality.
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