" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. I'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over.
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