"If you don't stop its squalling, I will. I like such interviews. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The only difficulties that presented themselves clearly to her were the difficulties of getting away from Morningside Park, and not the difficulties at the other end of the journey. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. He was in great pain and it meant that he would be in casts for twelve weeks. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. To-night they say he will be conscious.
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