The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. ‘You know?’ ‘Come, come, Melusine. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. You go to your room and ring for your maid. Consternation gripped him. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son.
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