“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. " "Won't you go?" cried Jack passionately. Hell's curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park.
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