"Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. E. E. good at that. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. . Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that.
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