" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. ‘Pitiful. "So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Little by little the pool cleared, the whims vanished: so that both Ruth and the doctor, by the middle of the third week, began to accept Spurlock's actions as normal, whereas there was still a mote or two which declined to settle, still a kink in the gray matter that refused to straighten out. Very soon she would be able to forget it. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. “So long as you learn,” said Mr.
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