Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. Every one turned to her in astonishment. Dinner was quite uneventful. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. A town called Foster. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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