270 “Curse that boy!” He chuckled and stomped the water. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. He looked at her with a certain curiosity.
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