She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “Lucy Albert, sir. He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks. ’ ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald. “Don’t!” she begged. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. 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. The Rev. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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