In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. It added to the picturesqueness of the Sha-mien night to observe these gaily coloured lanterns dancing hither and yon like June fireflies in a meadow. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. He had let go his name so easily as that! What was the name she had given? Ruth something; he could not remember. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. Smith. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. They even talked about friendship.
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