I would not think so of you, Marthe. I took the usual way home. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. I can’t love you. He did not love Ruth.
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