That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Following his guide, Sir Rowland found himself in a large and lofty apartment, the extent of which he could not entirely discern until lights were set upon the table. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. “Let me see,” he said. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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