Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. 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. “Hi. "There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. That boy—blind as a bat! Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night! From the first chord of the Grieg concerto to the finale of the Chopin ballade, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. I speak frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from any living person.
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