“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. "I was coming to give you intelligence of a comical trick played by this rascal, when I find him here—the last place, I own, where I should have expected to find him.
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