Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. Sebastian observed coolly, savoring the outline of Lucy’s feral figure hunching over Michelle’s gradually diminishing body. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. And me, I know very much of soldiers. I wanted something alive. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. So he resolved to try another tack. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book.
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