She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. Only I just want him. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers.
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