"
Ruth brushed her eyes with one hand and with the other signed for the spinster to
stop. Sir
John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving
parasite—something quite insignificant. “By Jove!” he said, “there is something direct about you. 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.
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