“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night.
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