‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Ennison. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. Once the ship faltered, and the tip of this jade wall broke into a million gems and splashed him liberally. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood.
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