Ruth loved him. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad.
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