It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. It was rumored that was one of the children who didn’t even take a Lunch period, his schedule was so overloaded. “He is not—I don’t like him. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free.
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