‘I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. You see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. ” She breathed an inner sigh of relief. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. Buck up.
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