You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. 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 entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess.
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