Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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