She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. Lucy wore it every day from then on. But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself. I found a blue stone on the beach once. I haven't forgotten her previous history. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened.
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