Hope reared. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you.
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