He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. "Oh!" she gasped. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening.
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