He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. She laughed a little bitterly. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. Let her see what she could make here.
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