She had begun alone. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love.
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