“I have not the least idea who he is. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. ‘En tout cas, it is not reasonable that I could be at all in love with him. Burn your palette and your easel. But don't suppose, Madam, that anything I say has reference to you. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. “I said that at the Zoo, and I mean it. He grew even harder. ” At this point she had perceived that she was drifting from her subject. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. ’” “What did he say?” “What does any one say to an invitation to dinner point-blank? One tries to collect one’s wits.
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