She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Mr. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. " "Nothing else?" "No. I find you were excessively brave, mon pauvre.
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