Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. "I must tell you," she was saying. I want to give myself to you. ” “It isn’t,” said Mr. “Sure. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose.
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