He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. 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. It was clear it must be to-morrow. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. But there are ways to learn more than a nun would teach. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. ’ ‘Ah.
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