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And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. White rang the bell. . Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. But that explains everything. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. ’ ‘Exactly so.
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