But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. “So is Mr. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. Should be home soon. He turned to Ruth and McClintock. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. For you know that I have made up my mind to dig a little way into life single-handed. It jars with all my ideas. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too.
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