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CHAPTER II. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. There he stands. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. And, yet, I don't know. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. " "Come along, then. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there.
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