“I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. ” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. She shook them off of one foot. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved.
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