But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it. E. . It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "To make your mind perfectly easy on the score of Mrs.
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