" "My mind's made up," rejoined Jack, coldly,—"we part to-night. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously.
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