Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you. ‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse.
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