Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. I'd like to be alone now. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. He has given orders that no one is to disturb him. .
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