He shuddered. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. “Look, dear,” she said presently, “you can put the ten on the Jack. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance.
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