“Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. Furious shouting, and the thunder of running feet. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. " "Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard. Vorsack looked pale and pink. 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. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. It was plain that a man of his age could only be interested for one reason alone, yet she felt compelled to at know him a little before the main event.
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