His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. The foremost, tall, clean-shaven, perfectly groomed, half extended his hand with a smile of recognition. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. 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. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Seconded by his strength and temper, his skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost a battle. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. There is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. .
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