" "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. ’ ‘In one little minute,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘it is over and voilà tout. It’s artificially chance. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. ” So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.
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