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] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner.
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