’ Her conversation was wonderful, Gerald decided. ’ ‘Ah yes. “I too am asked. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself.
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