" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. . I know now that I was mistaken. He listened. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad. The signal of distress was evidently understood. There was no rush. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. You have been her guardian angel. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around.
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