And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Be so good as to come this way. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. But what I want to get at is this. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience.
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