The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. She still had her letter of credit. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. “Yes.
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