Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. The pistol fell to the floor. It does not matter to him either way. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse.
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