The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. ‘You are not the only one to seek them out,’ he said. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. .
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