He was apt to play so many games, she was afraid she might have misunderstood. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. There you are! Girl spoilt for life. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. Maternal relations. And by monsieur le baron, of a disposition entirely unforgiving, I do not desire to be recognised in the least. There were no mourners.
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