‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. “Is this Montague Street, W. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Wood again made his appearance in a more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment.
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