Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Soup would help you feel better, soup and hot tea. He's worth a dozen of you. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so.
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