She looked around the apartment for other people. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. And nothing to tell her where to begin. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. Fairbanks, AK, 99712. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. His eyes closed.
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