Some of your sex, I mean. laws alone swamp our small staff. Have you ever tried to run and jump in petticoats, Mr. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest.
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