A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. They must have a key. He did make her perceive something of the acute, tormenting desire for her that had arisen in him and possessed him.
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