“I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. Ramage, speaking the simplest first thought of his heart. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. Her eye met his four inches away, and his was glaring, immense, and full of resolution, a stupendous monster of an eye. That’s why I come to tell you. In all his life he had never realized a dream; but the thought had never before hurt him. “You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort.
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