Spurlock grew cold. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. In the presence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was always dignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he did when alone with Ruth. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me.
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