“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. It had certainly caused some havoc in the uninhabited mansion, chewing through Holland covers to get at the furniture beneath, and knocking down a fire guard and a couple of wooden stands. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. “He tried it. By a sort of instinct. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house.
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