Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. “Wasn’t Parliament to reassemble?” He put out his hand and leaned against a tree and crossed his legs. You can enjoy him and then drink him up. The man’s passion was infectious. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. ‘Oh! little Vee!’ he cried, ‘little Vee!’ and put his face between his hands and sat still for a long time before he broke out again. Ramage, speaking the simplest first thought of his heart. ] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room.
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