‘Jacques, do not go!’ Jack gazed steadfastly at the floor. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. The doctor expected her to seize upon the subtle inference that there was something furtive, even criminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation upon humanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door.
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