He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. Never. “We should get out of here. ” He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. I do not wish to return to Paris.
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