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“Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. He threw her on the bed. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. 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. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity.
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