When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. “Because I hate you!” She spat. . "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. There was nothing to be learned from her face.
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