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Perhaps she was. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. She found herself looking sheepishly around the bedroom when a sudden tingle of electricity moved from her groin, fanning out from her belly. Everyone will grumble to you confidentially—Miss Ellicot, she’s our swagger young lady, you know—up there, next to Miss White, she will tell you that it is so out of the world here, so far away from everyone one knows. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. Ogilvy was full of a client’s trouble in that matter, a grave and even tragic trouble. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?” “No more talking,” the doctor interposed. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. CHAPTER XXVII.
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