‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. He offered me at once an engagement. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement.
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