“I think she would,” she decided. It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. Lucy knocked again. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. \"How's it going, Lucy?\" She turned. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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