And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face.
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