Wood turned to look at him. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. Reaction set in and she leapt at him, beating at his chest with her fists. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. “I do,” he answered. This was no light conquest; nor was it a government easily maintained. Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. .
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