The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. But you! Ruth is your lawful wife. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. Don’t leave me. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. A fortnight passed, then a month. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. The lovers broke into passionate knowledge of themselves and each other, and then, a jarring intervention, came King Mark amidst the shouts of the sailormen, and stood beside them. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner.
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