By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. “I wonder which of us enjoys that most,” said Capes—“does he, or do we?” “He seems to get a zest—” “He does it and forgets it. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time.
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