She had given up everything to share his life. She had weighed
him in the balance against wealth and comfort and her place among the
great ones of the world, and had chosen him. There were times when the
thought filled him with a kind of delirious pride: times, again, when
he felt a grateful humility that made him long to fall down and worship
this goddess who had stooped to him.
In a word, he was very young, very much in love, and for the first time
in his life was living with every drop of blood in his veins.
* * * * *
Hank returned to New York in due course. He came to the studio the same
night, and he had not been there five minutes before a leaden weight
descended on Kirk's soul. It was as he had feared. Ruth did not like
him.
Hank was not the sort of man who makes universal appeal. Also, he was
no ladies' man. He was long and lean and hard-bitten, and his supply of
conventional small talk was practically non-existent. To get the best
out of Hank, as has been said, you had to let him take his coat off and
put his feet up on the back of a second chair and reconcile yourself to
the pestiferous brand of tobacco which he affected.
Ruth conceded none of these things. Throughout the interview Hank sat
bolt upright, tucking a pair of shoes of the dreadnought class coyly
underneath his chair, and drew suspiciously at Turkish cigarettes from
Kirk's case.
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