Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. "Poor fellow! I'm glad he has escaped. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove. " "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. A remittance man.
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