Her shoulders began to ache. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Try and let him never regret it. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. "And I want to thank you, too," supplemented Ruth. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. " "Not now," returned Thames, impatiently.
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