At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. ” “It might become one,” he answered. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. “I think she would,” she decided.
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