At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. 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. Smith, "upon my conscience. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. ” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. ’ ‘Dear me. ’ Her lips parted, but she did not speak.
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