I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. The reward is mine. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. They almost made me feel like they were mine. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world.
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