Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. “I can’t believe it. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Cautioning the knight, if he valued his neck, to tread carefully, Jonathan then descended a steep flight of steps; and, having reached the bottom in safety, he pushed open a door, that swung back on its hinges as soon as it had admitted him; and, followed by Trenchard, entered the night-cellar. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. Horrible doubts assailed her.
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