A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. He kissed her ardently. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Ennison, or any other young man. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. ‘Precisely.
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