After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt. How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours. 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. “Thank you.
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