” “She is one of them,” Ennison said. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. Besides, he was a Yale man. I have it about me. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. That is why I came to London. She moaned as she touched him.
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