Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Very well, then. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. “‘Go it, missie,’ they said; “kick aht!’ “I swore at that policeman—and disgusted him. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir.
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