She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her.
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