Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well. She would take this one back with her. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again.
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