It was Martin, she could hear his heart beat. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not.
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