‘Didn’t mean to say that. " The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. The chapel was crowded to excess. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. The response of her body was enough that she lazily opened her eyes. That boy—blind as a bat! Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night! From the first chord of the Grieg concerto to the finale of the Chopin ballade, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature. ‘I’m taking you to Gerald, my girl. .
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