I just want him, and no one else will do. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. She shuddered. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. For a long time neither spoke again. Critically, she stared at her own features. Another glass, Jack. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. “This is a very foolish sort of entertainment.
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