" At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice the pallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. “To tell you the truth, it has seemed just lately as though we were becoming in some measure estranged. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. ” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me.
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