" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. They are not your children, they never were. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. They will insist upon a catalogue of things one must not do, which does nothing but fill one with the greatest desire to do them. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted. What do you mean by it, eh?’ ‘But I did not send it to you,’ Melusine rejoined instantly. She licked his neck, which put him over the top. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again.
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