Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness.
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