“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. ' He muttered it continually. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. He did not love Ruth. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her.
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