" "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. 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. In the '80s such a dress would have indicated considerable financial means; under the sun-helmet it was an anachronism; and yet it served only to add a quainter charm to the girl's beauty. A slow anger burned in the man. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. “I do hope you will see how things are, and not be offended with me or frightfully shocked and distressed by what I have done. .
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