’ Melusine’s heart leapt, and as swiftly clattered into dead stillness as the implication of the second name hit home. Then came the great day. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. 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. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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