It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. ‘It is not possible. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. We were worried. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. \"No, not really. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time.
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