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“Nothing at the moment, thank you.” Patrick walked across to a cubist painting on the wall. “Is this a Picasso?”
“It's a print. Papa has the original put away in a safe.”
Patrick shook his head. “What a waste!”
“It's a very expensive painting. The insurance people wouldn't cover it without extensive burglar alarm systems, and as Papa wouldn't agree to those …” She shrugged. “How are you?”
“I'm fine.” He turned back to her. In dark pants and sweater, a thigh-length, black leather coat overall, he looked curiously alien with his distinctive tan. “How about you?”
“I'm fine, too.” Ruth sought about in her mind for something to say and fell back on the most obvious. “It's terrible weather, isn't it?”
He glanced towards the sleet-drenched windows. “I suppose it is. I'm quite enjoying it.”
Ruth nodded, giving him a nervous smile, and he went on: “You're wondering why I'm here.”
She shrugged. “Do you have a reason?”
“Of course. Did you think I was at a loose end and drove here on the off chance of filling in the afternoon?”
Ruth linked her fingers together. “You might have done.”
“Well, I didn't. I rang this morning, and when I could get no reply I decided to come round.”
“I see.” Ruth considered this. “Both Mrs. Lawson and I were out shopping this morning, I'm afraid.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” His tone was dry. Then he sighed. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”
Ruth was astonished. “I – I –”
“I know it's short notice, but – well, actually I wasn't going to see you again.”
Ruth quivered, “No?”
“No.” He frowned. “After the last time, it seemed obvious that our association wasn't going to work.”
“Why not?”
He moved his shoulders restlessly. “You – seemed to want – more of me than I was prepared to give,” he replied, and she went scarlet.
“And – and now?”
He bent his head. “I guess these things don't always work out the way we'd like them to.”
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