Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. ’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you.
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