All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. If they had any idea the concerts he had seen, they would have known the quality of her playing. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. It interwove with her biological work. Death belongs to God, young man.
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