"I've lost my wager. Do you live here?" "Not exactly," answered the carpenter. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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