“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. . The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence.
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