He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. That terrible Young Person! she’s vanished. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. ‘Very wise,’ he commented, slightly relaxing his arm.
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