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She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. Only your horror of a grandfather insisted on coming with me, so I had to wait for him to be ready and travel at his pace. Everything, my dear, everything!. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.

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