" "You are the kindest man I have ever known," said Ruth, unashamed of her tears. "The door's open, and the room empty. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. ] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room. Do you know of what I speak?” “I do, I do!” She said.
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