The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. ’ Disappointment flooded her. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. Entranced, he stared at the name.
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