But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. "Then it is not too late to save him. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.
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