He was a little embarrassed. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. 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. “Of course you don’t. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. He was angry. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. On that first occasion, the delay in locating the entrance to the secret passage meant that she had to wait until morning to make her search.
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