It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Supper was over. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. A good deal of the food will be in tins. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. I should like to have had you forgive me. "I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness.
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