. . ’ ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. "I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. Go back at once, please. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda.
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