The door closed softly upon her. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible. But," said the fellow, with a laugh, "he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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