Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. To-night they say he will be conscious. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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