" "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. "No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again. In your heart you know quite well that all that you have said is useless. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. " "Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that sounded!—talk! "If you want to. . " Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled.
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