Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Ambassador’s’ again. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. He did not have to. " "For a bit of kindness?" Ruth was plainly bewildered. She had begun alone. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic.
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