“Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. I have had no one but for you. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. She would take this one back with her. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly.
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