The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. His heart hammered in his chest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner.
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