Last night there had been no time. The customary gold band was missing; but a soft gold Chinese ring Spurlock had picked up in Singapore—the characters representing good luck and prosperity—was slipped over Ruth's third finger. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. "Hear me out," said Jonathan. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. .
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