" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. Got detained in the City, and——” Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree. It has become a part of the order of my life. Once before—but that had been different.
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