He classified her as he seated himself. 1. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. That added to his puzzle.
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