From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. But Enschede took them as they came, without question. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. So she said: “I won’t come home. " "Ruth what?" "Enschede; Ruth Enschede. “John, of course I forgive you if it is what you need from me. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. There you are! Girl spoilt for life.
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