When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. ” “Well?” “Lunch! I am hungry—tragically hungry. ’ The expression on Emile Gosse’s face was vicious under the smile. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Winifred, you are deceived in me. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. .
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