He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. " "What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. CHAPTER XVII. 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.
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