" 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. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Her patience was waning fast. ’ ‘Oh, don’t I? What do you have under all those petticoats, a holster?’ ‘But yes, and they are empty. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
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