One can learn and understand only by personal experience, by actual contact with the realities of life. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. ” She said, frozen to the floor where she stood.
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