She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Still —there you are!” He paused. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. “I don’t know, John, but I think there is something going on with Michelle. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream.
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