Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘There is no question of a dispute. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign.
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