“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. I step on my neighbour's feet, return and apologize because my acquired conscience orders me to do so; whereas you might pass on without caring if your neighbour hopped about on one foot. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Let us walk about.
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