She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. His vicious abusiveness vanished. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone.
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