She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. But next moment, Captain Roding put up her back. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. You couldn’t help it. “Shut up, you little faggot. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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