The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. “It was best for me to know. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds.
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