Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. He and her father shook hands manfully. He used a most awful word! Then he said, ‘It’s Ann Veronica gone to join her sister!’ ‘Gone!’ I said. Gerald’s breath caught. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him. The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. .
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