The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. She pawed at him, her hunger for his body making her dizzy with anticipation. She was my first love. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. Go to your sister, and do not quit her till all is over.
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