I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. Never mind. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. Her father was an astute businessman and a hard worker, but also handsome in the face which had aided partly his ascension to the Guild. .
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