He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. " "I don't wonder at it," rejoined Gay. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. ‘Gerald had to change both shirt and breeches. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy.
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