He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. It did so well that they sold it in the nineties. ‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. For that matter, my future be damned. CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss.
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