Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. " So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. " "No; another still more extraordinary. " Ten minutes' walk brought them to the hotel. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task.
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