"I assure you, Sir, when I left him an hour ago, it was locked. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. Diable. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. ’ A radiant smile dawned. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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