‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. " He patted her hand. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth. And experience was slow in coming. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. ‘Can’t see a thing. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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