The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. The Bishop, however, to show him the danger of meddling with the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn for his pains. There it was—to be borrowed. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. It was only some hours after that these ambiguous elements evaporated and vanished and loathing came, and she really began to be thoroughly sick and ashamed of the whole disgraceful quarrel and scuffle.
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