We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love.
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