The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. “My hand! This isn’t the place. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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