She did most urgently desire to save her face in Morningside Park, and for long hours she could think of no way of putting it that would not be in the nature of unconditional admission of defeat. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. He’ll survive. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself.
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