Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. Nor was Jack by any means the only stripling in the room. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. Lucy wore it every day from then on. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. E. He was staring at her, openly gaping.
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