I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him. Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand.
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