He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. “I remember you now,” he said. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. “What was that?” she asked sharply. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them.
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