Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. “I say!” he cried. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. They seldom arrive on the beach. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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