Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. “To me it seems serious enough. A brief calm succeeded. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. There was every indication that she fled the island in company with a dissolute rogue. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. ‘Yes, that is reasonable.
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