Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. And then I came here. Rummage, my boy, do. Kneebone made his appearance. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. I will be very well without him. In a sense I don’t care. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear.
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