She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity.
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