But her request was unheeded. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Besides, Gerald would not for the world have passed up the chance of a little excitement. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed.
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