" "Ruth what?" "Enschede; Ruth Enschede. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. She answered slowly. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London.
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