the bar. Apparently he did not see
his recent companions. There was a strained, eager expression on
his face.

"Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment
of Prudence.

"The poor young man!" sighed Angelina.

"Pah! He's a fool. I never saw a man who wasn't."

"There was Father," suggested Angelina gently.

"Ninny! What did we know about Father, except when he was around
the house? But where is the girl? She said something about having
tea with us. I want to know more about her. I wonder if she has any
idea how oddly beautiful she is?"

Ruth at that precise moment was engaged by a relative wonder. She
was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively,
and perhaps bewilderedly. What was the matter with the dress? She
could not see. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her
delight, a new toy. Here was one that subtly mocked her.

Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
Each human contact leaves some indelible mark. The spinsters--who
on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever--had
already left their imprint upon her imagination. Clothes.
Henceforth Ruth would closely observe her fellow women and note the
hang of their skirts.

Around her neck was a little gold chain. She gathered up the chain,
revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom. The locket
contained the face of her mother--all the family album she had. She
studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the
dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment. Very well.
To-morrow, when she returned to Hong-Kong, she would purchase a
simple but modern dress. Anything that drew attention to her must be
avoided.

She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. It was precious
for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom
she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in
Hartford.

She uttered a little ejaculative note of joy and rushed to the bed.
A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Oh, the beautiful books!
Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her
arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Love
stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were
bound in paper; Romance lay unalterably within. All these wonderful
comrades, henceforth and for ever hers. She would never again be
lonely. Les Miserables, A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, The
Last Day