Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. Earles drew out his cheque book. ” “I’m delighted,” she exclaimed. “I confess it. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. There are, then, in this sorry world, people who can be disinterestedly kind!" The doctor laughed, gave Spurlock's shoulder a pat, and left the room. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. You are you. I'll think no more about her.
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