He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. “We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. .
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