‘Until today. "I'm tired of the life I'm leading. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. And not a worthy tome in sight. . . Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. ’ ‘Perfectly correct, my boy.
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