This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. He had seen the announcement of your marriage in the papers, and he imagined that I simply wanted to remain unknown because of your husband’s puritanism. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. . We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother. She missed them already. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. ’ Gerald laughed. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.
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