His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. “And I’m not happy. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. 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.
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