" "You are mocking me, Rowland. That boy—blind as a bat! Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night! From the first chord of the Grieg concerto to the finale of the Chopin ballade, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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