In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. “I’ve got bad faults.
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