Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. The last piece was Scheherazade. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. "Take courage, man; it is only Quilt Arnold. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved.
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