’ ‘Ah. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. Her back arched slightly in response. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “You can’t think that I’m fool enough to be put off like this. 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. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. It wouldn’t be you. ‘Must be another of her lies.
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