He was caressing an idea.
The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination.

The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary set-backs.

Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while.

Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess.

But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end.
Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality.
One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it.