So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. I intend to remain very serious indeed while I’m doing it. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome.
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