It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. I'm told he's so handsome. I consented. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. ” Her words were slurred with sleep. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. A rock gave way to deep water. He was completely, devastatingly handsome. " "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. I hear they are very much affected by the tragedies of their neighbours in France.
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