She was ushered into the back of the squad car. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. The patient fell into a natural and refreshing sleep. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. She has already forgotten it. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik.
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