"You see?" Ruth said. “Mr. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. He was a little embarrassed. "I am innocent. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. “After all, how easy the descent is, even for the greatest of us. "Quite captivated, Ma'am," added Mr. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. But she veiled her feelings.
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