At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Even our coarseness. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come. Or perhaps my father once. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. “Women should understand men’s affairs, perhaps,” said Miss Garvice, “but to mingle in them is just to sacrifice that power of influencing they can exercise now. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion.
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