He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. I sha'n't cry any more. She spoke slowly. You'll do. It was so arranged that Ruth went on duty after breakfast and remained until noon. It was a letter. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment.
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