“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. “I’m so glad my Mom’s letting me go out tonight. We mustn’t make it so. It must be sent home this evening. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco.
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