He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ’ He threw a fulminating glance at Gerald. But here it is China. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change.
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