Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it. Tomorrow you will feel like a freed woman. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. —There, Mr.
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