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“I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. She found next morning, when she came to this advertisement answering, that it was more difficult than she had supposed. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. Will you answer me a question first?” “If I can,” Ennison said.
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