Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Ruth loved him. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. But ——” A look checked him. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could.
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