It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. They seed beyond all reason. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. Mind, when we were all growed up, it were different. ’ Lucilla burst into laughter and clapped her hands. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me.
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