She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. But I have not done so, and will not. ‘So it was. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever.
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