“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. She told us that it was a disguise. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. He thanked God for this talent of his. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. “Please come by. "But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth. With his foodle doo! "Peace!" cried Jack.
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