More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. It was hard to meet that gaze. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. See, it is on my cards—M. She was not a Christian woman. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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