It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable. On the contrary, his glass was never idle, and finding it not filled quite so frequently as he desired, he applied himself, notwithstanding the expressive looks and muttered remonstrances of Mr. Jordan and Josiah. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught her.
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